Holidays with Holmes
by KCS
Summary: A series of holiday-themed ficlets in the company of our favourite duo. Chapter 12 - Holmes and Watson, discussing love and marriage one evening. And no, NOT slash. Happy Valentine's Day!
1. Easter

**This is absolute insanity – but I do have historical documentation for the traditions of Easter eggs; if anyone is interested, just PM me. No, really, I did do some research; and Easter eggs, the Easter bunny, and Easter cards were all alive and well in the Victorian period. :)**

**Happy Easter, everyone!**

_**KCS **_

**_----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_**

"Mrs. Hudson!"

I winced, glancing in the mirror to finish tying my cravat, as I heard the unmistakable voice of Sherlock Holmes bellowing down the stairs for our long-suffering landlady.

"MRS. HUDSON!"

Sighing deeply, I pulled on my jacket and descended the steps to our sitting room just as one more vociferous shout was flung to the air, loud enough that it could have been heard in the Marylebone Road.

"**MRS. HUDSON!**"

"Holmes, for heaven's sake! It is Sunday – you'll wake the neighbors!" I remonstrated as I entered the sitting room.

Sherlock Holmes was seated at the breakfast table, gulping down what looked to be his seventh cup of coffee, judging from how hyperactive he seemed already, drumming his fingers on the table and tossing pieces of the _Times_ about the room as if grey newsprint were the new fashion in carpeting.

"Have you seen Mrs. Hudson?"

"Good morning to you too."

"Our landlady, Watson. Have you seen her?"

"Yes, I was aware that she is our landlady. And no, I have not. Pass the coffee?"

"The pot's empty. MRS. HUDSON!"

I winced at the vehemence of his caffeine-accentuated vociferations.

"You drank the whole thing?" I asked incredulously.

"The _Times _presented some singular features this so very fine morning, Watson. Have you seen it?"

"I am looking at what appears to be a heavily dissected version of that excellent periodical," I replied dryly, looking about the room and pouring milk into my coffee cup. Had he really drunk the whole pot?

"Ha! Well, let me enlighten you, Watson. In the agony column, you remember that one advertisement I pointed out to you, the one about the old man who helped the lady in the purple hat across the street last Tuesday noon, etc., etc.? Well, this time the advertisement was slightly different, for it was worded…"

I sighed and performed my regular duty of tuning out the hour-long dissertation on the agony column of the _Times_ that inevitably accompanied the emptying of a coffee-pot before I could reach the sitting room in the mornings. 

I boredly finished my milk and then took the warmers off my soft-boiled eggs just as Holmes was starting on the _second_ column of his beloved and accursed periodical's agony column.

"And that little bleat signed again from that chap named Horatio – I do believe that is a secret liaison for a gang of – what the devil?"

I stared down at my plate in some surprise and amusement mirroring Holmes's own.

"Um, Watson?"

"Yes?"

"What the deuce is the matter with your eggs?"

I glanced up to see his absolutely stupefied face staring at my plate incredulously and laughed.

"It appears that Mrs. Hudson has decided to make us something special, Holmes – take a look at your own."

"I am rather afraid to."

"Oh, go on," I said with a grin.

Holmes dubiously lifted the warmer from his own egg and peeked under the cloth, giving a squeak of disgust before looking back at me.

"Well?"

"What in the world is wrong with them?"

"Holmes, do you know what today is?" I asked, carefully peeling the shell off the top of one and applying salt and pepper.

"Sunday."

"Sunday, what?"

"March 23."

"No, no, no, Holmes. The holiday!" I said, sampling the egg. Its taste appeared to have not been affected by the treatment to which it had been subjected.

"Holiday?" he asked blankly.

Honestly, I do believe the man would forget Christmas if Mrs. Hudson and I did not insist upon calling him _Scrooge_ for a fortnight beforehand. He appeared to have no idea whatsoever about any holidays, period. I sighed.

"Holmes, today is Easter."

"Easter?"

"Easter."

"Um, very well. What logical connection does that have with those garish specimens of breakfast protein on our plates?"

"Evidently Mrs. Hudson thought she would be festive and made Easter eggs yesterday, Holmes," I replied, finishing one and starting on the other.

I received another blank look.

"Easter eggs?"

"Easter eggs. Since the middle ages, people have been colouring and embossing eggs around Eastertime as a symbol of rebirth," I explained slowly, as to a small child, "and do you not remember four years ago, Holmes, in 1883, that Faberge chap made a special gold and platinum egg for the Russian Czar Alexander's wife?"

Holmes stared at me, peeking once again at the gaily-coloured egg still hiding under its warmer on his plate.

"Are you telling me the truth or is that just another one of your embellished forays into romantic fiction?" he demanded.

I snorted and finished the second egg.

"Just eat them, Holmes. And do be kind to the poor woman; she was trying to brighten up our day. Heaven knows you're always a black cloud on any holiday in the calendar."

"I am not!"

"Yes, you are. You refuse to even acknowledge Christmas unless I rag you incessantly about it."

Holmes growled something that sounded suspiciously like 'bah humbug' but he took the cover off the egg – which was decorated very prettily in blue and gold – broke the shell, and tasted it.

"It tastes like a normal egg," he said in dubious surprise.

"Were you expecting it to taste like blue paint and gold leaf?" I asked dryly, pouring myself more milk.

Holmes scowled, dumping half the pepper shaker into the egg and tasting it again.

"Much better."

I shook my head, just as Mrs. Hudson entered the room.

"Ah, Mrs. Hudson. More coffee, if you please?" Holmes asked brightly.

I shot him a withering glare and turned back to our landlady.

"Thank you for the bit of Easter cheer, Mrs. Hudson," I said with a smile, indicating the empty shells on my plate.

The woman beamed.

"My little niece was over last night while you two were out chasing after that bank robber, Doctor, and the lass wanted to make Easter eggs – I had a few left over so I thought perhaps it would brighten up your day a bit," the woman said with a fond smile.

"Mr. Holmes was very surprised to learn of the tradition," I said slyly, glancing at my companion. 

He had apparently finished the egg and was now absorbed in the criminal news of what remained of the shredded _Times_ while finishing his breakfast.

"Have you told him yet about the Easter rabbit, Doctor?"

Holmes choked on his sausage.

"Easter rabbit?" he demanded, glaring at both of us.

"Easter rabbit, Holmes."

"What the deuce does a rabbit have to do with eggs?"

"You are the logician, Holmes," I replied mischievously, pushing back my chair from the table, "deduce that little mysterious connection for yourself."

"And while you are at it, Mr. Holmes," said our good landlady on her way out the door, "Perhaps you and the Doctor should send out Easter cards. The stationer's on Oxford Street has a lovely selection –"

I ducked as a deadly missile in the form of what remained of the _Times_ flew dangerously over my head at the now-abruptly closed door.

"Holmes, for pity's sake!"

"Easter eggs, Easter rabbits, Easter cards – _drivel_!" my companion growled, shoving back his chair irritably.

"Must you be so sulky even on a holiday, Holmes?"

"_Especially_ on a holiday!"

"Honestly, you are insufferable."

"Twaddle. Easter rabbits, indeed," he snarled, kicking a pile of news clippings out of the way as he reached for his pipe. He sat in his chair and smoked for several minutes in a testy silence.

"Holmes."

"Mmph."

"Would you like to go watch the Easter parade outside of St. Peter's with me later this morning?"

I slammed the sitting room door in time to repel whatever the object was Holmes threw violently in my direction and collapsed against the wall, laughing nearly hysterically.

Ah, well. Perhaps someday I would convince Sherlock Holmes that holidays were a time for cheer and not depression.

And perhaps someday it would be scientifically proven that the fabled Easter rabbit were indeed a real immortal creature.

Highly improbable, the both of them.


	2. April Fool

**A/N: Oh, my gosh! Two people drew my attention to this pastiche called 'The April Fool's Day Adventure' by Ken Greenwald, so I went and got the book at the library...and was horrified to find that this story is rather similar. I SWEAR on my Annotated Complete that I didn't plagiarise - didn't even know that story existed! Honest!**

**Happy April Fool's Day, everybody!**

**_KCS_**

* * *

I am inclined to think most readers will agree that I am by no means a nervous man. Years spent on the battlefield and in the company of Mr. Sherlock Holmes have made my already innate nerve hardened to the point that it takes a great deal to make me feel fear or unease.

Yet there is one apparently innocuous holiday that I thoroughly dread with every fibre of my being, one day of the year that can instill in me a nervousness that no criminal I have ever encountered has been able yet to do.

The first of April – April Fool's Day.

Do not laugh at me, gentle reader, for you have never been forced to spend that day in the company and the lodgings of the world's foremost consulting detective. Combining that particular mischief-making holiday with the most brilliant mind in the history of detection that is absolutely bored in the extreme is very definitely a combination no mortal should ever have to endure.

Sherlock Holmes was known for his theatricalities and an almost impish sense of dramatic humour; however, when he had no client or criminal upon which to employ those talents he unfortunately turned his unwelcome attentions upon me. And this good-natured holiday sometimes turned, for me at least, into a not-so-good-natured prank war in Baker Street.

On that first day of April in the year 1897, I awoke with a deep sense of foreboding in my small upstairs bedroom. Knowing that Holmes had not had a case for over two weeks, I was very much dreading what he was going to attempt to do to me upon this day.

After carefully sitting up in bed and checking to see that there were no traps of any kind laid round my room (I had locked the door the night before and placed a chair under the knob, but one never knew with Sherlock Holmes) I got up and readied myself for the day.

The process took me twice as long as normal, for I had to check all my toiletries for sabotage (past experience had taught me the necessity of _that_ precaution) and so forth.

I could smell Mrs. Hudson's breakfast cooking downstairs and a smile curved my lips as I remembered that last year we had both finally declared food to be off-limits to the pranks; after Holmes had laced my tea with a tasteless chemical that turned my mouth blue (I could not leave the flat for three days due to the lingering effects) and I had promptly shot his luncheon full of an enema (after which he had been very ill for several hours and we had called a permanent truce with the food).

At least I no longer had to worry about the meals – the _only_ thing I did not have to worry about in fact.

But this time, this year, I was not about to let Holmes get the last laugh in as he usually did. I had a plan, and Holmes was not going to enjoy the day's prank war as much as I was.

When I entered the sitting room, Holmes was sprawled upon the sofa, tossing about the different newspapers he read every morning in an effort to find something of interest. I took a cursory glance round the room for traps and saw nothing. Which was in itself suspicious.

I sighed. It was going to be rather a long day.

"Good morning, Watson – are you going to come in or just stand there warily checking the room?" I heard his voice float dryly over the back of the couch.

I felt my face flush, although no one could blame me for my precautions. And the fact that Holmes was obviously bored boded ill for me now. I poured myself a cup of coffee, unobtrusively tasting the sugar in the bowl to see if it had been replaced by salt, which thankfully it had not, and checking my cup for exotic South American insects or the like.

After that little ordeal, I seated myself at my writing desk to finish the last paragraphs of the story I had been working on last night upon my retirement while awaiting Mrs. Hudson's excellent breakfast.

"Anything of interest in the papers, Holmes?" I asked conversationally as I dipped my pen into my inkwell, trying to retain a sense of normality.

"No, nothing. Even the agony columns are bereft of all humour and originality. The London criminal is –"

"Yes, yes, I know, he is certainly a dull fellow," I finished impatiently, regretting that I had asked the question. I began to scribble down the last few paragraphs of the story, wanting to get it done before my plans for the day unfolded.

Holmes snorted derisively and lazily arose from the couch, pouring himself a cup of coffee. A moment later Mrs. Hudson appeared with a well-filled breakfast tray, for which I was grateful – I might need the fortitude the food would offer, for the day had barely started and already my nerves were on edge.

I laid my pen down as the good woman left the room…only to stop short, staring, as the three paragraphs I had just written slowly vanished from the page under my startled eyes.

"Oh, really, Holmes!" I growled, inspecting the inkwell, "couldn't you think of something more original than disappearing ink?"

I heard a snicker from behind me and rolled my eyes, praying for patience.

I seated myself at the table across from Holmes with a scowl, although I was relatively glad the prank was somewhat harmless – many of his were not. Finally I had to laugh along with him as he nervously passed the dishes, eyeing me to see if I were still angry with him.

"You know this is so immature, Holmes?"

He grinned at me and attacked his food with a good appetite. That worried me as well – an appetite meant that he had had something to apply his energy to, and that something was liable to be another prank upon me. I supposed I could endure it, however, if it meant he would eat a full meal.

But I could not restrain a smirk at his so very complacent attitude, for I had a trick of my own up my sleeve that I would stake my reputation he knew nothing whatever about. One does not live with the world's greatest detective for fifteen years and not develop a talent for hiding things.

Our breakfast was spent in carefully avoiding anything volatile, and in consequence the rather strained converse finally fell into a silence broken only by the occasional 'Pass the marmalade' or some such courtesy. On my part at least; Sherlock Holmes usually just grabbed whatever he needed from the table if it was within reach of his long arms.

We had barely finished when Mrs. Hudson entered with the announcement that we had a potential client waiting downstairs. Holmes looked exceedingly grateful for the intrusion, and I was glad for his sake, for he had been bored in the extreme for the last two weeks.

And although he promised me he no longer used that dreaded needle to combat his ennui, I still worried that one day the temptation would become too strong even for his iron nerve. No, better that he should engage his time in filling my inkwell with disappearing ink; it was a small price to pay if it would keep him from that temptation.

Which was why I already knew the identity of this client and what the case was – I had orchestrated this exceedingly carefully for his sake and his alone. I carefully repressed any emotions from my countenance, however knowing how easily he could read my thoughts from my features, and retrieved a blank notebook and pencil in preparation for note-taking.

Holmes filled his pipe with tobacco after checking it carefully for anything out of the ordinary (I had on occasion over the years done something to it on this particular day) and lit the pipe somewhat warily. When it neither went up in a burst of flame nor smouldered like a wet rag, he breathed a sigh of relief and turned his attention to the lady entering our rooms.

I shall not bore the reader with the details of Lady Eva Blackton's tale, since I myself (with the aid of my old friend Stamford – the lady was an actress friend of his) had primed the woman yesterday with her story's details and made it intriguing enough for Holmes to become interested upon the instant.

The lady's safe had been broken into late last night while she was out at the theatre with a (here she blushed very attractively) male companion. When she had returned, she had seen nothing amiss until she went to put her jewels away and found that the contents of the safe had been completely emptied.

The lady answered Holmes's questions intensely and without a glance at me, for which I was grateful. She did a marvelous job of detailing the fact that it had been the maid's night off and the butler had been on leave, that the room and house bore no signs of a break-in, that only she held the combination to the safe, and that nothing else had been stolen in the house.

Needless to say, Holmes was intrigued at once, shaking off his lethargic boredom as a dog shakes off water after a bath, leaping out of his chair and tossing my coat at me, dashing down the stairs to holler for a cab.

Miss Alice Waltner, as the actress's name really was, winked at me as I gestured her out the sitting room door after Holmes, and I returned the gesture with a grin. I owed Stamford one for this. Not only had he found the girl to act the part of the client, but he also had a friend who was out of town at the time and perfectly willing to let him use his townhouse as the setting for this 'crime'.

The townhouse was an average-sized city dwelling for a lady of the supposed Lady Blackton's standing, and Holmes spent several moments studying the ground outside the lady's windows before we ever went inside.

"Footprints?" I asked hesitantly.

Holmes inspected the hard ground beneath her ladyship's window with a frown.

"Curse this dry spring – I can only tell that there was one man, over six feet and rather thin for his height. The ground is too hard to give any more distinct traces," he groused in irritation, "but it is quite obvious he came in this way."

I breathed a sigh of relief that I had gotten Stamford to walk under the window from the road just in case Holmes would have been able to tell any marks from the grass outside – Stamford had said he would not be able to see anything in the packed earth but I had insisted we make tracks just as a precaution. How right I had been!

Holmes pulled out his lens and inspected the shutters.

"The man is certainly an expert in his field, experienced in break-ins, Watson – there is only a tiny scratch, see here, on the wood of the latch. There, where the paint is scratched. Did not leave a trace otherwise. Clever, very clever."

We moved on to the bedroom, and I was very glad to see that Miss Waltner made her way about as if she had lived there all her life – we had coached her well. Holmes would have instantly noticed if she had been ill at ease in 'her' own bedchamber.

"No, please stay back, both of you," he said sharply, flinging himself down to study the nap of the carpet.

Miss Waltner cast a glance at me and I nodded encouragingly.

"Ha! Watson, look at this," he said suddenly, his lens fixed on some point on the carpet.

"What have you found?"

"Ash, Watson."

"What kind?"

Holmes scraped the tiny traces from the carpet into an envelope, sniffing it.

"Strong shag tobacco – our burglar has good taste, Watson."

I nearly choked at that statement, barely restraining a smirk with difficulty. Holmes tossed the envelope unceremoniously at me and continued his perusal of the carpet.

"Odd, Watson."

"What is?"

"Our thief paced up and down here for quite some time, apparently smoking all the while. Very odd – why pace up and down?"

"He knew he had plenty of time?"

"But how was he to know that it was my maid's night off, Mr. Holmes?" 'Lady Blackton' asked.

"Exactly, Lady Blackton, he had no way of knowing, unless he had planned this for a good while beforehand, having an intimate knowledge of the house and its habits. Pacing would indicate either thought or nervousness. Very odd. However, it is but a small trifle. Now, for the safe."

Holmes stepped over to the safe and inspected it carefully.

"Hmm, as I said, Watson, this man is an expert in his field – you said that you noticed nothing amiss until the safe was opened, Lady Blackton?"

"No, Mr. Holmes. I had no idea anything had been taken until I opened it yesterday evening."

"Then he is rather a good safe-cracker, for this is no easy model to open," Holmes said, glancing at me, "even I should have trouble with it!"

"You, Mr. Holmes?" the lady said in feigned astonishment.

"I have had occasion to do so in my time, Lady Blackton, always on the side of the law I assure you. But this is no easy model. Would you open it for me, if you please?"

The lady did so (I suddenly wondered how the devil Stamford's friend had trusted him with the safe combination) and Holmes halted as the door swung open, whipping out his lens and looking at the hinges.

"Envelope, Watson," he said suddenly, and I fished in my pocket for one and handed it to him.

"What is it, Mr. Holmes?"

"Threads, wool threads, of a high quality," Holmes replied, pulling them carefully off the hinge and placing them in the envelope, "our thief's sleeve must have caught in the safe door. Take care of that, Watson. Now, Lady Blackton, this is obviously completely empty. Was there anything in here besides your jewels? Papers, coins, anything?"

"No, Mr. Holmes. Only my jewellery."

Holmes frowned.

"I shall need a list of the items in question."

"I can make you one right now," the lady said without batting an eye at me.

"Please do so. Watson? A word, if you please."

Holmes pulled me to the side with a glance back at our 'client'.

"Watson, I do not trust that woman."

"You do not trust _any_ woman, Holmes," I returned dryly, but a trifle nervously.

"Yes, yes, but she knows something that she is not telling us. Watch her closely, old fellow."

"Very well. Have you formed a description of the thief?"

"Over six feet, quite thin, of a nervous disposition, thoughtful and introspective, smokes strong shag tobacco as I have already said, dresses fashionably for the time of year, is extremely intelligent and expert in his field, has a close contact with the criminal classes since it is not easy to dispose of stolen jewels. Also it is highly probable that he is a musician or at least comes into contact with musical instruments and that he deals with chemicals on a regular basis."

Even I was taken aback by this, for though I knew from what he was basing his conclusions I had not expected him to make the deductions quite so completely.

"How on earth can you know all that, Mr. Holmes?" Lady Blackton asked in astonishment, handing me a list of the 'stolen' articles.

"Yes, Holmes, I follow all but those last two statements," I added.

"Upon this safe handle is a slight trace of dust which I believe to be rosin, used for instruments such as violins and violas. I cannot be certain without a chemical analysis, and unfortunately the dust is too fine to be taken from this location. But it is a point to docket for later, Watson."

"And the chemicals?"

"Our thief obviously did not wear gloves, judging from the residual rosin, and there is a slight discolouration on the door of the safe, quite recent, that bespeaks of someone touching it after dealing in something acidic. Also, if you will take time to note, there is a distinct odor of ammonia lingering inside the safe."

"I can smell nothing."

"It is there, nonetheless, and to a trained observer the scent is obvious," Holmes returned rather arrogantly, pocketing his magnifying lens.

I was a trifle worried about the discolouration on the safe – had Stamford damaged his friend's property? I made a mental note to ask him about the fact when I spoke to him later at my club, where we were to meet after this joke was finished.

"There is nothing more to be learnt here, Watson. Have you anything further to add, Lady Blackton?" Holmes asked, turning to the actress.

"Nothing, Mr. Holmes," she replied, her dark eyes scanning him sharply.

"You are quite certain?"

"What exactly are you driving at, Sir?"

Holmes sighed, and I was rather glad that he so despised dealing with women that he was loathe to pursue the subject any further.

"I must bid you good-day, Lady Blackton. I shall contact you as soon as I have news," he said impatiently, waving me to the door.

The woman glanced at me as I followed Holmes out and grinned with a nod as she started to replace everything we had moved the day before, preparing to lock up the place. Her job was done.

* * *

Holmes paced about our sitting room for the better part of the afternoon, muttering and growling, smoking incessantly, and far too busy to think of any more pranks to play upon me.

I barely kept the grin off my face at my success of the morning. I had accomplished my dual purpose – to keep him so occupied that he had no time to play any practical jokes upon me and at the same time to play one upon him that he obviously had not yet picked up on.

Truly, as he said, the most obvious things in life were the things we tended to overlook a good bit of the time.

"Holmes, what is troubling you?" I finally asked, pouring myself a drink and seating myself at my writing desk, replacing the ink in my inkwell with fresh ebony.

"This infernal case, Watson!"

"What about it?"

"That woman is lying, Watson; she is hiding something and I do not know what. And the whole thing just seems wrong, somehow!"

"Oh, how so?" I asked absently, digging through my pile of notes.

"I cannot put my finger upon what, Watson. Confound it!"

I grinned down at my journal.

"Well, you have a description of the criminal – that is something," I said.

"Bah."

"No, really, Holmes," I said, leaning back and reading what I had scribbled that morning as he had spoken.

" _'Over six feet, quite thin, of a nervous disposition, thoughtful and introspective, smokes strong shag tobacco as I have already said, dresses fashionably for the time of year, is extremely intelligent and expert in his field, has a close contact with the criminal classes since it is not easy to dispose of stolen jewels. Also it is highly probable that he is a musician or at least comes into contact with musical instruments and that he deals with chemicals on a regular basis.'_ "

I glanced up as Holmes jolted to a stop quite suddenly in his perambulations, his back turned from me.

"Yes, I see what you mean; it _is_ rather vague. Why, that could be a description of you, my dear Holmes!"

I do believe it was at that point that I could no longer keep the grin off my face or out of my tone, for Holmes turned round slowly to face me, his grey eyes peering warily at me.

I looked calmly back at him as the clock struck the hour, neither of us moving for a moment.

And as his startled eyes met my twinkling ones, his jaw dropped – irritation, amusement, and dismay each struggling for the upper hand in his thin face.

"Oh, dear heaven, Watson. You didn't!"

And I grinned at him, knowing that this year at least, I had gotten the better of the world's greatest detective, for a few hours at any rate. Although I had the feeling I would very much regret this escapade either later this evening or next year – Sherlock Holmes kept a grudge like no other man alive.

"Tell me you didn't, Watson!"

But for now, I merely turned back to my writing with a smirk.

"April fool, Holmes."

* * *

**_Happy April Fool! Reviews are always welcome!_**


	3. May Day

****

A/N: OK, the site was having a cow and saying the chapter was not found, so I deleted it and tried again. My apologies if you got the story alert twice because of that.

The subject of how many times Watson was married has been debated in these circles for years; I have not formed a definite opinion on the matter one way or the other, but for the sake of this fic Watson did _**not**_** remarry before Holmes retired. Just to let you all know.**

**In case anyone has been listening to the BBC Radio production of LION, this also addresses a tiny issue that I for one caught on to in the drama – if you thought along the same lines as I, let me know.**

* * *

_Many thanks to **Monty Twain** and **Pompey **for giving me pointers about this holiday. Happy May Day, everyone! This is posted tonight because I have to work two jobs tomorrow and heaven only knows when I'll get back. Enjoy._

* * *

"More tea, Watson?"

"Yes, thank you."

"You really should try the honey, it's quite fresh."

"I don't doubt it," I returned warily, casting the amber substance a dubious glance as Holmes refilled my cup.

"Would you like to take a jar back with you?"

"Erm, no."

Holmes put down his cup, shaking his spoon in my direction.

"It's quite healthy for you, Doctor."

"You need hardly tell _me_ that Holmes. And _don't_ shake your spoon at me, you're splattering milk everywhere!" I said in exasperation, trying to shield the remains of my breakfast from his zealous intentions.

"Ooh, growing testy in your old age, Watson?"

"I am only a year older than you are, Holmes," I replied dryly, "and if I _am_ growing old before my time, it's because of the stress of living with you half my life!"

My companion shot me a very wounded look that only lasted for a few seconds before he dissolved into a loud and extremely annoying snicker.

"Ah, Watson, I really have missed tweaking you, you know."

I snorted.

"I was about to say I've missed you as well, but if that's all you're going to admit to I'm not so sure."

He laughed lightly, tossing his napkin down and rising from the table. I hastily finished the rest of my tea and followed suit.

"It really was good of you to come down," he said as we took our third morning stroll along the beach this long weekend.

"I only wish I could stay longer," I said wistfully, glancing out over the ocean and feeling the salt breeze blowing gently.

"We still have today, until late afternoon anyhow," Holmes said pensively, "I have never been very appreciative of holidays, but if May Day can give me my biographer for three days instead of two then I am all for celebrating it."

I smiled at the oblique compliment, Holmes's own odd way of showing affection.

"What would you like to do on your last day, Watson?"

"No more bee-studying, if you don't mind," I said hastily, seeing that mischievous gleam in his eye directed back toward the cottage.

He laughed, the sea breeze blowing his dark hair, and I was struck by how much better he looked, now that he had been retired for nearly a year. Those last few years of practice in London had caused both our healths to deteriorate quickly, and neither of us were as young and strong as our investigative counterparts.

Much as I had hated to dissolve the partnership, I knew better than he that it had to be done, for both our sakes. And truth be told, we were both rather weary of the life we had led for so many years – London and crime had moved onto new inventions and new people, modern things that had no part in the Victorian era we still cherished. He and I, we had remained the same while the world had changed round us without our realising it.

Holmes's way of dealing with the change was by withdrawing from it; mine by returning to active practice and studying the new medical discoveries.

I had had people ask me if I regretted the retirement, and to each of them I gave a resounding no – for Holmes looked far happier, far more relaxed, now than he had ever been in the smog and work and sometimes serious injuries dealt by his chosen profession.

The only time I saw him look any happier than when he was working with his bees was in instances like this, when he was teasing me about some random topic, his grey eyes lighting up with all the old fire as they sparkled affectionately at me.

I returned the glance with an impish grin of my own and answered his repeated question.

"Suppose we go into Farnsworth and take part in the May Day festivities?"

He stopped short and spun round, his heels spraying sand all over me.

"Holmes, honestly!"

"You're not serious!" he asked in dismay, completely ignoring my discomfort as I tried to brush my trousers clean.

"Yes, I am," I replied, watching him closely, "you said yesterday that you would do whatever I wanted today!"

"But _Watson_!" His voice had risen in pitch to a child-like whine that dearly made me want to laugh, but I kept a straight face with difficulty, wanting to see how far he would really go to please me.

For a moment he pleaded wordlessly with me and I had absolutely no mercy on him, meeting his gaze unwaveringly. Finally he broke it with a growled curse, kicking a stone into the white-capped wave that splashed at our feet.

Also spraying yet more sand on me, this time filling my shoes.

"Holmes!"

"Very well," he grumbled despondently, looking as if I had requested we attend his own funeral, "but not for very long, mind!"

I refrained from shouting aloud with laughter at my victory, merely grinning at his dejected face and trying to remove the sand from my shoes before giving up in despair.

* * *

Two hours later found us in the village of Farnsworth – it had been a three-mile walk and at first I was far too winded to even care about anything other than sitting down somewhere with a cold drink. Holmes steered us to a small inn, informing me of its merits in the voice of a man who knows whereof he speaks.

"Do you often come here?" I asked breathlessly, sitting heavily and wincing as my leg twinged a bit.

"Mm, occasionally. Stackhurst swears by the place, though," he replied, sipping his ale.

"Who?" I asked, warily tasting the brew and reluctantly agreeing with this elusive Stackhurst's taste.

"Howard Stackhurst. You remember, I told you about him; he runs the _Gables_, that school a half a mile from my cottage."

"Oh, yes, I do remember now."

"We've been here…I don't know, a half-dozen times or so. The man's fairly picky in his tastes," he said absently, glancing round us at the customers in that sharply observant fashion he so used to when we would be dining in the Strand back in London.

I pushed down a very large twinge of jealousy at the casual way Holmes informed me of this elusive scholar's acquaintanceship with my friend, hiding my irritation in my mug while Holmes made a few random deductions about the people in the inn.

"Usually it is far busier at luncheon time," he remarked, "'everyone must be out in the town. You are sure you really want to do this?"

"Of course," I replied, "we've never been to a May festival, have we?"

"Not willingly. That Preston woman in that murder case back in '96, though, her family did drag us out on one such occasion if I remember correctly."

"Don't remind me," I said with a shudder, "that woman was perfectly horrid."

Holmes snickered, tossing a coin on the table.

"I do believe that's the only time I ever saw you actually _run_ from a lady's attentions, Watson."

"Holmes," I warned.

"Or was it _in_tentions?"

"**Holmes!**"

He laughed again, pushing me out the door and obviously enjoying my flushed, indignant face far too much.

A group of children, dressed in Sunday best and whooping excitedly, nearly ran us over as we exited the inn, and Holmes growled something irritably, hopping out of the way and shooting a very testy glare after their rapidly retreating forms.

"You know, you could just try to enjoy yourself instead of keeping up that Scrooge façade," I said in amusement, looking eagerly round at the bright sights and cheerful sounds of merry-makers enjoying the holiday.

Holmes snorted. "Honestly, Watson. After twenty-three years, that incurably romantic streak in your nature is still that strong?"

"You always did say I was a fixed point in a changing age," I said complacently, ignoring his barbed sarcasm and looking round us.

"Well, let us get it over with," he sighed, pulling me in the direction of the carnival area. "What exactly do you find so amusing about this sort of claptrap?"

"What exactly do _you_ find so annoying?"

"We haven't time to get into _that_, Watson, unless you are planning on prolonging your stay with me for the next year or so."

"Much as I would like to, I –"

I was interrupted by another group of lads, this time in the black and white uniform of a private school, running past us, shouting and chasing each other in and out of the bustling crowd.

"Holmes, you're the last person I should have expected to see at a May Day celebration," a voice suddenly spoke behind us, following on the heels of the school-lads.

Holmes sent a glowering frown at the speaker, a tall, dark-haired man with a pair of clear brown eyes and a scholarly appearance, who was grinning broadly at my companion.

"Do not even start with me, Stackhurst," he growled.

I regarded the newcomer warily, but the man turned those honest eyes in my direction and smiled, holding out a friendly hand.

"Dr. Watson, I presume?"

A smile came unbidden to my face and I shook the young fellow's hand amiably enough.

"Howard Stackhurst. I'm headmaster at the _Gables_ school," he said by way of introduction while Holmes stood idly by, rather rudely scrutinising people.

"Yes, Holmes has told me about it. Those lads, are they some of your pupils?" I asked, gesturing to the whooping group of boys.

Stackhurst sighed. "Yes, this is quite the holiday for them. I suppose I shouldn't let them run wild but honestly I grow weary of keeping tabs on them all in a festive place like this."

I thought back to the countless times Holmes and I had ended up trying to corral a dozen street urchins in our flat (_without _breaking anything or throttling one of them) and nodded in agreement.

"So tell me, how the deuce did you get Holmes to come out to the celebration, Doctor – the man seems to abhor all signs of frivolity with his whole Bohemian soul," the scholar went on, grinning at my dismal companion's countenance.

The amourous young couple that had cut him off from us in the melee were very…unVictorian in their attentions to each other, causing Holmes's face to become a regular study in scarlet as he tried to extricate himself from the throng and move back towards us.

"Oh, I have become quite proficient at manipulating him over the years," I replied with a grin, my earlier animosity disappearing under the chap's honest amiability.

Stackhurst laughed. "I can imagine. Some of the stories he tells about the two of you!"

"Oh?" I asked, curious.

"Oh, gracious yes. You're practically all he talks about, Dr. Watson," the fellow said with a laugh, "I believe you're the only person he ever even _thinks_ about, other than those blasted bees. Got stung yet?"

The touched warmth I had felt at his first statements was turned into a chuckle at the abrupt change in subject.

"No, I have been lucky so far," I returned, smiling genuinely this time.

"Nasty little devils," Stackhurst growled, "he wasn't good enough to warn me the first time he took me out to see them, confound the man."

I broke into a laugh as Holmes finally fought his way back towards us, holding a rather large, partially-eaten toffee apple.

"Where the devil did you get that?" Stackhurst asked in amusement.

"One of your lads threw it at my hat," he replied with a scowl, shoving it into the scholar's hands amid the man's protesting squawk.

Stackhurst stared at his sticky hands, then back to me with a roll of his eyes.

"How the deuce did you stand him all those years, Doctor?" he asked, wiping his hands on his pocket handkerchief.

"More patience than common sense," I said with a grin. Holmes elbowed me sharply with a snort.

"You'd better go find those monsters, Stackhurst, before they wreck the whole festivities," my friend said, pointing at the gaily-coloured Maypole.

"Well, it was a pleasure to meet you after hearing so much about you, Doctor. Perhaps the next time you come, I should be glad to get some advice from you about teaching these lads creative writing," Stackhurst said, shaking my hand, "have a safe journey back to London."

"Thank you, and the pleasure was mutual," I said sincerely, wondering how I could have been jealous of the man's open honesty.

Stackhurst hurried off after his pupils, and Holmes and I wandered the grounds for over an hour, just milling about watching people as of old. I never grew weary of hearing him make the most outrageous but absolutely true deductions about the people we passed, and now was no exception.

So enjoyable a time did we have, that it was with no little dismay that I realised it was mid-afternoon; I had only just time to pack my things back at the cottage and make it to the station.

"Where did the time go?" I asked despondently, once we were back at the bee farm and I was hastily throwing my things into my valise.

Holmes's face was more…depressed, I suppose was the best word, than I had seen him in quite a while, as he moved about silently, making sure I had all my things. His way of dealing with emotion was silence and avoiding the subject, and as always I respected his wishes and remained silent as well.

He snapped the lock shut on my valise at last and walked to the window.

"The trap's here," he said quietly.

I walked over to the window, and we stood there for a long moment, looking out over the beautiful countryside.

"When do you suppose you'll grow weary of treating ailments and setting broken bones, Watson?" he asked suddenly.

I was slightly taken aback by the odd question.

"I – have no idea, really," I said slowly, "but honestly it does grow bothersome at times. I doubt I shall want to remain at least in active practice for many more years."

I saw a gleam come into his eyes.

"But don't go looking for an empty cottage near yours just yet, Holmes," I said with a laugh, shaking a finger at him.

He chuckled, knowing I had divined what was in his mind.

"Would you mind terribly if I came down in a few weeks for another weekend?"

"Honestly, Watson. You do ask the most inane questions sometimes."

"Have to continue to make you feel that you're still so superiour to me," I replied, picking up my bag with a slightly unsteady grin, not wanting this to end but knowing it must.

"Just because one's talents lie in different directions from another man's does not make him superiour, Watson," he said softly, turning from the window to fix me with a more openly affectionate glance than I had ever seen in those old rooms at Baker Street.

Perhaps his retirement was more of a good thing than I had even thought.

We left the cottage and I shoved my bag up into the small trap that was to take me to the country station and back to London. Then I turned regretfully back to my dear friend.

"My door will always be open to you, Watson," he said sincerely, resting a hand on my shoulder for a moment before holding his other out to me.

I gripped it firmly, sighing in regret that the weekend was over.

"Thank you, Holmes. For – the past and the future," I said softly.

The corners of his eyes crinkled in a wry smile. "A romantic sentiment worthy of the _Strand Magazine_."

"Always."

He laughed, giving me a hand up into the trap and stepping back out of the way.

"I'm holding you to that promise – three weeks, Watson!" he called, raising a hand in farewell as the vehicle started to move.

I smiled and waved back until he and the cottage were out of sight.

* * *

It was not until that evening when I was unpacking in my rooms that I found the small note that had been slipped into my things, probably when he had fastened the catch on my valise back in the cottage.

_Watson,_

_I may not, as you doubtless know, be the most apt to understand matters of the heart, but I do believe I can recognise jealousy when I see it, especially from a man of your strength of character. You need have no fear, my dear fellow, for anyone else's companionship pales in comparison to my old staunch biographer's. _

_Do tear yourself away from reality and come down again soon – for I really am lost without my Boswell._

_SH_

_P.S. By the way, in case you changed your mind._

I swallowed the lump in my throat and glanced under the note to see what he was referring to in the postscript, then burst into a fit of compulsive laughter.

A jar of that blasted honey.

I folded the note and placed it in my pocketbook, then picked up the jar with a sigh and a small grin, gazing at it contemplatively.

Bees.

_Bees?_

And Holmes always said that there were unexplored possibilities about _me_!

* * *

**_Happy May Day, all!_**


	4. Mother's Day

**A/N: There was quite a discussion about this particular fic over in the Brainstorming thread of KS's forum. One thing I pointed out in the forum was that Mrs. Hudson couldn't have been any older than late thirties, early forties, in 1881 when it all began – because if she was as old as the dramas put her then she would have been **_**far**_** too old to be a competent housekeeper (climbing two flights of stairs) by the time Holmes retired 22 years later. We really have no idea of how young a widow she really was when the boys moved in, and so I feel fully entitled to a bit of poetic license in this story.**

**It's written for people's enjoyment anyhow, not as a direct tribute to the Canon (cringes as Sir Arthur rolls in grave) so anyhow. Posted today because tonight and tomorrow are going to be exceedingly hectic for me.**

* * *

_'It could possibly be a few days until I can return your invitation, for I must remain on call until Mr. Holmes returns from France, but I shall endeavour to come round next week if at all possible._

_Until then, I remain yours respectful-'_

I jumped as a loud crash sounded from below stairs, looking up from my letter-writing in some annoyance at having my script now decorated with an angry scratch from a startled pen.

But my anger soon faded to worry as I both smelled and saw a dark wisp of smoke curling in from the open hall door. I jumped out of my chair and hurried into the hall and down the stairs, coughing against the acrid fumes.

I nearly ran into Mrs. Hudson in the smoky hall as she was throwing open all the windows, letting in the fog-wet London air.

"I am so sorry, Dr. Watson!" the good woman gasped.

"What happened?" I asked, coughing a bit and swinging the hall door back and forth a few times to dissipate the smoke.

"The chimney came loose on that stove again, Doctor," she said apologetically, brushing some stray hair back into place, "and I was in the pantry and didn't realise the fact until the kitchen filled up with smoke!"

"Well, no harm done at least," I said with a smile, shutting the door at last. But the smile faded when I saw an angry red mark across the woman's palm.

"You've burned your hand," I said in concern.

"Oh, 'tis nothing, Doctor," she replied, hastily putting her hands under her apron, "all a part of cooking."

"Still, hold on a moment and I'll go get my bag," I said, taking the steps two at a time before realising that was not a good idea with my leg still in less-than-top condition.

"Doctor, you shouldn't be going up and down those stairs!" the woman called after me in dismay.

I probably should not have been, but as a physician that was of small importance when a patient was in need of care. And despite the woman's very vigorous protests, I was soon seated at her kitchen table and carefully wrapping a soft bandage around the severe burn.

The lady seemed a trifle awkward at first in my presence – this was actually the first close, one-on-one contact we had had since I had moved in to share the flat with Sherlock Holmes close to a year ago – but after a bit of employing my easiest bedside manner (or in this case table-side manner) she warmed up a trifle and began to chat amiably enough with me.

"You'd best not try any more activity with that hand today," I said, putting up my supplies and shutting my bag.

"You're a good lad, Doctor, but you should learn a thing or two about women," the lady returned with a twinkle, "we cannot simply drop everything just like that."

I raised an eyebrow, and the woman laughed, offering me a cup of tea which I accepted gratefully, enjoying both its warmth and the warmth (albeit a bit smoky yet) of the cheery kitchen.

"And you should learn a thing or two about physicians, Mrs. Hudson – they do not take kindly to having their orders ignored," I returned, looking pointedly over the rim of my cup.

"I appreciate your concern, Doctor – but this has to be done today," she declared, starting to fix the stove.

"Allow me," I said hastily, getting up and knocking the confounded stovepipe back into place with a quick enough movement to avoid burning myself.

"Thank you, Doctor."

"Quite welcome. What are you making?" I asked curiously, not having seen the inside of a kitchen in longer than I could remember and actually very interested – at any rate, whatever was happening in here had to be far more engaging than the activities I would be aimlessly trying to occupy my mind with upstairs.

"Well, it _was_ bread before it was damaged by the smoke," she said ruefully, "I now believe I shall try a coffeecake instead. Is Mr. Holmes to be back tomorrow?"

"As if I would know," I replied dryly.

The woman laughed, getting out a bowl and spoon.

"Quite an interesting character, your friend."

"He is indeed," I replied with a smile, "I trust we don't annoy you overmuch most of the time?"

"Oh, _you_ are quite the model tenant, Doctor," she assured me.

"And Mr. Holmes?"

The lady glanced meaningfully at me, and I laughed, jumping forward as she lost hold of a larger bowl and catching it before it hit the floor.

"Just wait until I have recovered my full health, Mrs. Hudson – I can be every bit as awful a lodger, I would wager," I said, handing the item back to the woman.

"Pshaw. I doubt it, Doctor."

"I do apologise for the row up there the other day, though," I began a bit sheepishly, "we got – rather carried away."

"As long as you pay for the curtains, carpeting under the windows, and the varnish you burned off the desk there, I am fine with the matter," she returned serenely, mixing up a cake batter.

I coloured at the remembrance of how much damage Holmes had done because of my disbelief that the mixture he was concocting was an acid and not an base, clearing my throat a bit nervously.

"Were your previous tenants as bad as we are?" I asked, taking the bag of flour from her and setting it on the floor of the pantry.

"I had none, Doctor," she replied softly, "Those rooms belonged to my husband; Mr. Holmes now has his bedroom."

"I – I'm sorry," I stammered, "I didn't realise – you're so young to have been – that is –"

"It's quite all right, Doctor," she said with a soft smile.

I cursed myself for my lack of perception – of course I had known she was a widow but I had not thought about the upstairs apartment belonging to her late husband and her.

"Arthur was nearly as bad on the sitting room as the two of you are," she said with a smile, "though _he_ at least refrained from shooting off weapons indoors!"

"Your husband?" I asked a little hesitantly.

The woman's face clouded over momentarily.

"Yes, Doctor. My Arthur was taken a few months before I put the rooms out for let, heart failure."

"I am so sorry," I said softly.

"'Tis the way of things, Doctor," she replied shortly, "and we must make the best of it."

"I heard you say once that you have Scottish ancestry, Mrs. Hudson?" I changed the subject after a moment, taking the bowl she had emptied over to the sink.

"Yes, indeed, Doctor," she replied, her eyes dancing a bit, "Arthur's entire family were Scottish. The whole clan lives near Edinburgh."

"My family used to vacation there with my grandparents," I said eagerly, "Father was Scottish and Mother was English – lovely place, isn't it?"

"It is indeed, Doctor!" she replied enthusiastically, wincing a bit as she stirred the contents of the bowl and touched the burned hand, "I do miss it a good deal."

"As do I," I said wistfully, "it gets into your blood, rather, at least Father always said so."

"_Said_, Doctor?" the woman asked quietly, giving me a sideways glance.

"Yes," I replied quietly, "Mother died when I was but a youngster, and Father while I was finishing medical school. I have not been back to Scotland since."

The woman said nothing, but her eyes filled with sympathy as she straightened up after putting the pan in the oven and making sure the stovepipe was on properly.

"You have had rather a long road of it, haven't you, sir?" she asked, indicating my limp as I walked back to the table.

"That is the way of things," I repeated her words of earlier, accepting the refilled cup of tea.

My mind turned back wistfully to my boyhood days, so carefree of the war and the world and all that adulthood had seen fit to throw at me. Tomorrow would be the holiday of Mother's Day – it had been many years since I had been able to see my own mother's grave back on the old family estate in the North; when I had been able to, I always had left a small bouquet of spring flowers there every year on this particular Sunday.

Heaven only knew how well Andrew was keeping the estate and the family heritage up now, bouncing about as he was from fortune to poverty and back again, confound him.

I broke out of my reverie to see Mrs. Hudson looking at me quizzically.

"Thinking of Mother's Day," I explained.

She smiled. "Arthur and I were never blessed with children, but my sister has five," she said with a smile, "so I still get my share of them once in a while. Would you like some luncheon, Doctor? Here I've been talking your ears off instead of fixing you a nice meal, and you with that bad leg too, you need rest and nourishment."

I failed to see the connection between my injury and my empty stomach, but I could not repress a smile at the good lady's care.

"I believe you would make a perfectly capital mother to some fortunate little boy, Mrs. Hudson," I said with a grin.

She sent me a look that made me squirm like a school-boy.

"Your flattery may work on those young lasses, Doctor, and I dare say _has_ on a good many – but I am far too old to be subject to tricks of that sort, old enough to be _your_ mother!" she said, but her eyes betrayed her amusement at my words.

"Psh," I replied with a grin, "you don't look old enough to even be my sister."

"You, Doctor," she said with a glare, "are a quite ridiculous young man."

I grinned and downed the rest of my tea, raising my eyebrows at our intriguing landlady.

"Well, sometimes I do feel as if Mr. Holmes is in need of a mother," she scowled, washing up the bowls and spoons.

"A _keeper_, more like," I muttered, and the woman giggled like a girl.

"You are a good man, Doctor, in more ways than one," she said, sending me a warm smile.

"And you are a remarkable woman, Mrs. Hudson," I returned with a bow, presenting her with the dishes from the table, "to have put up with us for nearly a year and only threatening eviction three times."

"Go along now," she said fondly, swatting my hands with a towel as I tried to help her with those dishes, for she really should have refrained from using that burned hand.

I hastily scuttled away from her as she pointed to the stairs, ordering me to 'get out of her kitchen before I mussed everything up'.

"All right, all right, Mrs. Hudson – but stop using that hand!" I said exasperatedly.

"Go on, Doctor, I'll have your luncheon ready in a bit," she returned, shooing me out forcefully.

I stared for a minute at the closed door, feeling my face break into a small smile. Then after luncheon I went out for a walk (or rather a _limp_ in my case), bent upon an important errand.

* * *

_Sunday Morning, Mother's Day 1882_

I carried the coal bucket up the stairs and performed the usual duty of starting the fire in the two gentlemen's sitting room – this spring had been a bit chilly and wet, and the poor Doctor's injuries did terribly in that sort of weather.

I knew too that he was worried about Mr. Holmes – the Doctor had not been able to go with him on this extended case because of his ill health, and even though they had only known each other for about ten months I could see that the Doctor had grown very fond of his strange friend. And in his own odd way, I believe Mr. Holmes felt the same though he of course would never dare show it.

I should actually be glad to see Mr. Holmes return, to give the Doctor something to occupy his mind with other than thinking about the past and his poor deceased family or his dreadful experiences in Afghanistan.

I got the fire going brightly, spreading a cozy glow throughout the room, and then turned on the gas and opened the curtains for the day. The early morning sun filtered in a watery shimmer into the room, falling on the table there by the window.

I saw a small vase of brightly-coloured spring flowers on the table that had not been there the night before. I smiled, wondering if the Doctor had a lady friend – quite likely, knowing his nature – but then I saw the small card on the table underneath the vase, covered in the Doctor's clear strong handwriting.

_Mrs. Hudson,_

_I shall be sleeping late – do take the day off and rest that hand, won't you? _

_After all, since in your own words you are 'old enough to be my mother', I should like for you to enjoy the privileges given to such on this day of the year._

_A happy Mother's Day to you, good lady._

_J. Watson_

I glanced at the stairs, feeling my face break into a smile. Yes indeed, the Doctor was a very considerate young man.

They both were, actually. Though Mr. Holmes was not the sort I should be overjoyed to claim as one of _my _offspring. I glanced at the paper-littered, completely trashed bedroom belonging to the detective and felt a sharp pang of sympathy for the senior Mrs. Holmes. That poor woman.

I picked up the small vase and the note, smiling to myself. I would look forward to seeing those lads grow older and find their permanent places in this London they seemed to be struggling so hard to fit into.

Heaven only knew, perhaps they might even become famous someday!

* * *

**_Happy Mother's Day, all you mothers out there!_**


	5. Father's Day

_For once, this is completely non-Canon-based, and slightly melancholy - I have no idea where the idea came from but, like murder, plot bunnies will out. You have been warned._

* * *

I recall it was in a disgustingly rainy June in the year 1885 that London was set upon by a series of storms so wet that the streets were flooded almost constantly and returning home from an outing soaked to the skin became a regular way of life for a period of over three weeks. This nasty Saturday evening was no exception, for me at least.

I stumbled along in the driving rain, for nary a cab had been in sight since I had left the stationer's round the corner, my umbrella making for a very poor shield against the slanting torrent. I mentally cursed Sherlock Holmes for using my ink-bottles to hold his latest experiment with an Indian poison.

Of course, the idea of letting me know that the only ink remaining in the house was that in my nearly-empty inkwell had never occurred to his erudite mind, and thusly I found myself stumbling along the sodden streets in a downpour and also a temper in quest for a new bottle, as I wished to finish my latest story.

I turned down Baker Street, narrowly avoiding being run over by an omnibus whose driver was more interested in shielding his face from the rain than his passengers, and shivered as water trickled under my collar – I was soaked even after a short walk such as that, confound it.

It would serve Holmes right if I developed pneumonia from his overzealous ink-appropriating.

My very satisfying thoughts of soaping his violin bow for revenge fled my mind at the sight of a rather bedraggled figure huddled up in the doorway of 221B. The bundle of muddy rags looked up when I approached, and for a moment I forgot the rain and chill at the sight of a tear-streaked, dirty countenance.

"Hullo, Doctor," he muttered between chattering teeth.

"Alfie, what are you doing sitting here in the rain? I'm sure Mr. Holmes would have let you in if you'd rung," I said in dismay, for the lad was already sniffling, either from a head cold or from crying.

"Nobody answered, an' the door's locked," the lad said miserably, scuffing a shoe against the iron railing with a sodden squish.

Holmes must have decided to make himself scarce upon my return. The coward.

And I remembered that Mrs. Hudson had gone out for the evening to help a friend with pie-baking for some church bazaar, so of course there had been no one to answer the drenched child's pathetic summons.

I unlocked the door, shook out my umbrella and closed it, and entered. Turning round, I saw that Alfie was just standing there dolefully, looking into the softly-lit hall.

"Well, come on, I can't be soaking Mrs. Hudson's linoleum leaving the door open!" I said in exasperation.

The Irregular sniffed and scurried in, huddling up against the wall and fairly pouring water out of his clothing.

"What the devil did you get into?" I asked softly, taking the sopping, too-thin jacket off the lad.

"One o' them bleedin' four-wheelers, Doctor," he sniffled, "near ran me over, 'e did – knocked me roight inta a ruddy mud puddle. Bloody idiots jist loike ta kill people."

I was appalled, and not a little indignant, at the idea of a cab driver being so careless when children were on the streets.

"An'…an' oi lost all me money, too, five shillin' 'twas – right down the bleedin' sewer drain," the lad mourned, "an' it'd been a roight good day…now oi don' have nothin' left…"

The poor lad's lip had started to quiver, and I hastily headed off a bout of tears with a few brisk commands. Within ten minutes, I had the boy scrubbed, dressed in one of Holmes's nightshirts (the sleeves rolled up to half their lengths) and a blanket, and warming by the fire which I was trying to coax into life – Holmes had let it go out, confound him.

I had attempted to make cocoa, but ended up doing no more than filling the sitting room with a smell reminiscent of either a wet burning rug or the second smelliest of Holmes's tobaccos, and so Alfie had to be content with a glass of warm milk, which he drank eagerly, the steam rising from his wet ginger mop as he sat on the couch, pulled up close to the dancing flames.

I pulled the curtains as thunder boomed through the streets, rattling the windows and making me very glad indeed that I was indoors and not out. (Part of me hoped Holmes had gotten caught in the deluge without his deerstalker.)

"'S a roight nasty night, Doctor," the lad whispered, hiccoughing and giving a loud sneeze.

"Isn't your grandmother going to be worried when you don't come home soon, Alfie?" I asked gently, surreptitiously going for my thermometer.

"Oi wasn't ta come 'ome til oi'd got me money," he replied miserably, "now 'tsall gone, an'…an'…urf!"

I had once more stopped a possible teary outburst by slipping the thermometer in his mouth and holding it there despite a spluttered (and rather foul-mouthed) protest.

"Honestly, Alfie, such language out of one your age," I said, shaking my head.

"W'll 'tsn' nz t' sn'k 'p 'n m blogh l'k tha'," a garbled response came from round the thermometer.

I laughed, holding the lad's mouth closed. "Sneaking up on you is the only way I could do it, Alfie, you're more stubborn than even Mr. Holmes when it comes to being sick."

"Bl'm'y, wh'n m g't owt'n 'ere –"

"Shush. One more minute."

I was rather relieved to find that the lad had no fever; the hot bath had probably staved off the worst effects of the drenching he had received. But he was still sniffling most dismally, and I became quite worried when he refused both the biscuits _and_ the leftover cake from supper that I offered him. That was certainly abnormal for our little urchin.

I tossed some more coal on the fire and slowly lit my pipe, gazing thoughtfully on the small boy huddled up on the settee.

And I wondered…why had the boy come to Baker Street? It could not be for the money – although a setback, all the lad had to do was pick one man's pocket and he could easily come up with five shillings. A bit more work, but nothing to warrant a display of tears.

And crying did not come readily to these sturdy, street-wise urchins Holmes employed. They saw, and in most cases had many times seen, literally everything in London, the most sordid things imaginable, and never batted an eye. These lads were more hardy than some grown men I knew, which was why Holmes used them. They did not cry over lost money, even if it was a whole day's begging.

I supposed he could have come for the warmth and hoping for a hot meal…but no, he had refused my offer of food. And besides, he could just go home, for his own residence with his aging grandmother was not so far as all that from Baker Street. Shabby and squalid, yes, but the roof was in one piece and he did have a mattress and another set of dry clothing.

Why had he come here instead?

My attention was drawn back to the boy as a small sniffle reached my ears. Alfie was sitting with his thin legs drawn up to his chin, his little face buried in his knees, and he was shaking. Not shivering, _shaking_. Crying, then.

What in the world could upset one of these tough little boys so? Most of them were so used to being on their own that nothing at all affected them…

Being on their own.

_"Bloody idiots jist loike ta kill people."_ The four-wheeler nearly running him down in the street. That was how his parents had been killed two years ago, on a night similar to this. A four-wheeler accident during a thunderstorm in the heart of London.

And I felt a sickening feeling wash over me as I realised what tomorrow was. Not being affected by the holiday in any way now that my family were all dead save that wayward brother of mine, I had not even noticed the day until now.

Father's Day.

I winced, realising exactly why the lad was so upset, and scared too, being nearly run down by the same kind of vehicle that had taken the lives of his parents.

I sighed, realising my pipe had gone out without my noticing, and set the thing on the mantel before going over and seating myself beside the quivering child on our couch. I put a very gentle hand on his shoulder, not wanting to startle the boy, and spoke softly.

"It is perfectly normal to miss them, Alfie. And you have every right to cry, there's no need to be ashamed of such a thing."

He jumped, little green eyes bright with tears flying up to my face in surprise.

"Blimey, gov', yer as b-bad as M-Mr. 'Olmes in readin' p-people's minds," he gasped, stumbling over his words.

"I'm sorry," I said apologetically, but smiling at the dubious compliment.

"'S all roight, Doctor," the lad sniffled, rubbing the too-long shirtsleeve across his eyes and nose, "oi'm sorry oi sort'v crashed in yer room 'ere."

"You may do so anytime you wish, Alfie," I replied with a grin, "save when Mr. Holmes is in one of his _moods_."

That elicited a watery smile and a small snort, but a few minutes later the lad was obviously teetering once more on the edge of composure and very understandable childish hysterics.

I got up, poured him a glass of water, and returned with it and the plate of cake, setting both on the floor within easy reach of his trembling hands. Then I sat next to him, relighting my pipe, and wondering what to do. I was a doctor and therefore used to trying to comfort people, but rarely had I had to deal with traumatised children and never with one who had lost both parents.

After a few minutes, the sniffles had died down and I felt a green gaze on me inquisitively.

"Tha' smells good."

"Hmm?"

"Wot yer smokin', Doctor," he pointed a tear-wet finger at my pipe, "smells loike wha' me Papa used ta smoke."

The tiny tremulous voice caused a knot to form in my chest and tighten uncomfortably. I turned and shifted my position so that I was facing the lad on our settee, and he glanced tiredly at me as if expecting some artificial platitudes that no doubt he had heard before.

"You've no doubt been told, Alfie," I began somewhat uncertainly, "that 'it will not always feel this way'."

Green eyes rolled ceiling-ward. "'Course, Doctor," he sighed, dashing angrily at a tear.

"Well, it is true," I said softly, "it will take a long while, but it will not always hurt that much."

The boy's lips began to tremble, and he gulped, swatting at another escaping tear.

"An' 'ow do _yew_ know?" his little voice shook, but not with anger so much as with trying to remain strong as British men were taught to be from a young age.

I met that teary gaze with my own and held it for a long minute.

"Because my parents are both gone too, Alfie," I said simply, feeling the lump in my throat tighten even as I said the words.

The boy's eyes widened in shock. "Th-they are?" he stammered.

I nodded, seeing in that child a smaller version of the young adult I had been when my father had died while I was still in University.

My mental visions dissipated on the instant when the Irregular flung himself into my arms, sobbing most heartwrenchingly. I swallowed hard and tightened my grip around the troubled boy, wishing to heaven that things like this would not happen to such little children. Where was the justice in the world, I wondered sometimes – and more than ever I was glad to have a part in trying to balance the scales at the side of Sherlock Holmes in this mess humanity had made of life.

I only noticed my clothes were still sopping when I tightened my grip on the boy and a peculiar sloshing sound emerged, but that was the least of my worries at the moment. For several minutes, there was no sound other than the ticking of the mantel clock, crackling flames, and the sobbing of one heartbroken, frightened little boy.

And to top the awkward situation off, Sherlock Holmes picked that exact moment to return to the house, flinging the sitting room door open and throwing a sopping raincoat against the wall.

Thank heaven he had the sense to realise something was amiss when I glared at him – I doubt Alfie had even heard a thing, so deeply was he crying. The detective's pale face drew in with worry as he quirked an eyebrow questioningly at me. I shook my head, and he nodded sympathetically, disappearing without another word into his bedroom…but leaving the door ajar.

All through this, the lad had been sobbing miserably, but eventually his crying lessened, and I knew he was the better for it. Our ragtag little band were such droll, happy spirits that to see one of them in such a state was disturbing at the very least…but I knew this had been necessary, poor little chap, and I was glad he had trusted me enough to allow me to attempt to help him, feeble though my aid was.

Finally, Alfie's jerking breaths subsided into a series of hiccoughs, and he sniffled and went still against me as I patted his back reassuringly.

"Sorry, Doctor," the whisper was so faint I could scarcely hear it.

"It's all right, lad," I said softly, "you needed to let it out, you know."

Alfie gave a partially-hysterical snort. "Yew s-sound loike me gran'ma," he gasped, trying to catch his breath and pushing away from me, drawing the sleeve across his eyes again.

"If I didn't know your grandmother, I'd take that as an insult, young man!" I said lightly, handing him the glass of water.

He snorted a laugh, spraying water everywhere (no matter, I was still soaked anyhow), and took a long sip, sighing and dashing the rest of his tears away impatiently when finished.

"Cake?" I asked with a smile.

He shook his head. "Not very 'ungry, Doctor," he whispered.

"I understand, my boy. But you might as well take it with you – Mr. Holmes doesn't deserve it anyway for putting all my ink down the drain like he did," I said quite loudly for the benefit of the detective, who I knew was eavesdropping at his bedroom door.

Alfie grinned faintly and began to fill his pocket, only to realise belatedly that he was wearing Holmes's nightshirt and had just crammed lemon cake into it.

"Woops," he gasped in dismay, realising what he had done, looking fearfully back up at me.

I could not help but laugh at his face, and on the instant he relaxed as well and began to snicker, a welcome sound to my ears after the last very trying fifteen minutes.

"Your clothes should be dry by now, Alfie," I said, shivering a bit myself as mine were still wet, and going closer to the fire to check the boy's, "yes, nearly. Come along, young man, your grandmother is going to be worried about you."

"Doctor," I heard the lad say quietly as I helped him button the mud-crusted buttons on his shirt.

"Yes?"

"'Ow old were yew…when it 'appened?" he whispered hauntedly.

I sighed, sitting back on my heels to tie his ragged shoes. "I was ten when my mother died, Alfie. Twenty-five when my father died."

"Not too awf'l long 'go, then," he whispered.

"Six years," I said slowly, swallowing around the lump in my throat and feeling the back of my eyes burn.

"Oi'm sorry, Doctor," he said softly, throwing his thin arms round my neck and giving me a firm hug.

I smiled despite myself and ruffled his wet ginger hair, receiving the familiar scowl for the familiar action.

"Why don't you keep the…" I sneezed violently, causing the lad to jump like a frightened rabbit, to which I laughed and continued, "…the blanket, it could get chilly in the cab on the way back."

I called to Holmes to let him know I was leaving, though I knew he had already heard it from his listening post no doubt. I took the lad home, walking him up to the door and handing him the only change in my pocket, which happened to be half a sovereign – nearly causing him to burst into tears once more.

I was saved this time by his venerable grandmother, who while she barely spoke anything but German knew enough English to thank me apologetically for my trouble and invite me in, which I gracefully declined as I was still soaked to the skin and feeling rather chilled – I merely wanted now to get back to Baker Street and warm dry clothes.

Alfie peeked from round the lady's skirts as I turned to leave, and I stopped, dropping to one knee on the dirty pavement, and looked him in the eyes.

"If you want me to take you to visit them tomorrow, I should be happy to," I said quietly.

The lad gave me a rather wet smile. "Ta, Doctor," he replied softly, "but oi think oi'll be fine."

"Good lad," I said, stifling another sneeze.

"Best get 'ome, Doctor," the boy said helpfully, "or yew'll be comin' down wit' whoopin' cough. Wig and Bert said th' other day tha' 'alf the city's comin' down wit' it, and if'n yew don' be careful, yew might –"

Grandmother promptly shooed the rambling lad away from the door with another fervent _'Danke, Herr Doktor'_, and I smiled as I walked back to the cab – if the boy could chatter, he was on his way to emotional healing.

Now, if I could just get myself to heal physically, that would be a good thing, as I was now coughing and shivering rather more violently than was normal…

Sherlock Holmes had the door of 221B open even before the cab had stopped (how Mrs. Hudson would shriek when she saw the dripping wallpaper!) and nearly shoved me inside, getting waterlogged himself in the process.

"What the deuce was that all about?" he demanded.

I shivered, struggling out of my outerwear, and rubbed my eyes wearily.

"Father's Day is tomorrow, Holmes," I said shortly, surprised at how hoarse my voice sounded, "and that lad's parents were both killed two years ago in a four-wheeler accident. This afternoon, evidently a cab driver nearly ran him down as well. The boy naturally was disturbed and came here for comfort. I did my best to give it to him."

I sneezed painfully at this juncture, deciding if Holmes could not deduce the rest for himself he did not deserve the title of 'World's Only Private Consulting Detective', and stumbled up the stairs a bit groggily to my bedroom for dry clothes.

"Is Alfie all right?" Holmes's voice followed me as I limped wearily upwards.

"I believe so," I sighed.

"What about you?"

The unexpected question caught me off-guard, and I paused on the stairs, looking down at his troubled face, unguardedly open with concern.

"Are _you _all right?"

I nodded, and saw a relieved look fade into an affectionate approving glance.

"Watson, honestly, you are dripping all over the carpet. Stop dawdling and get out of those wet things – I have not the time or patience to deal with a bout of pneumonia from you!"

I snorted derisively and kept moving up the stairs.

Perhaps I could think of something rather more devious than soaping his violin bow…

* * *

_**Late next day…**_

"Will you stop sneezing everywhere? I am _trying_ to experiment on this dust and that's the third time you've nearly blown the evidence out the window!"

I scowled at Holmes, my head too muddled to cogitate a coherent reply, and buried my red face in the paper, sniffing miserably. Head colds were the worst possible ailment on the face of the planet – not serious enough that one could justify staying in bed all day but painful enough that an already annoying private detective could become positively infuriating after only a few seconds in his company.

I sneezed again, and judging from the swearing behind me, Holmes had been sufficiently startled to drop said experiment for the fourth time.

"Watson, for the love of heaven!"

"I can'd helb it!" I moaned, rubbing my eyes miserably.

Holmes growled something that sounded suspiciously like a French version of _'Physician, heal thyself before I kill you!',_ but he was cut off by Mrs. Hudson arriving with a pot of chamomile tea and a small letter for me.

"A lad brought it by not five minutes ago, Doctor," she said, kindly placing the tray within my reach.

"Thang you, Mrs. Hudsud," I said, wishing to heaven I could breathe and form my words properly.

The fact that Holmes was mocking my speech with a smirk and exaggerated slur every time I spoke did not serve to put me in a better humour, and I sent him a fierce glare while slitting open the envelope.

Inside, on a rather grubby piece of what was once white notepaper, were two scrawling lines of barely legible print.

_Hapy Fathers Day, Doctor_. _Yors sincerly, Alfred Weber Samuelson_

_P.S. And meny thanks for yesterday._

I laughed at the lad's effort at writing a proper letter (and that long name probably took him ten tries under Grandmother's watchful eye to sign neatly), but the sight warmed me more than the fire that flickered beside me. Surely a head cold was a small price to pay for such a letter.

I did not hear Holmes come up behind me until I felt a hand gently come to rest on my shoulder.

"Well done, my dear Watson."

* * *

**_Happy Father's Day, everyone!_**


	6. Independence Day

_Many thanks to **Protector of the Gray Fortress** for allowing me to borrow her characters for a bit. Thank you, PGF, and Happy Fourth of July! _

_And no offense meant in the least to any of my readers who are Brits, I assure you. After poking enough fun at Americans in **Vows** and **TWH**, I believe I'm entitled to defend my countrymen a bit. :)_

* * *

"Holmes."

"Mm?"

_"Will you for the love of heaven stop that confounded scraping? _How in blue blazes do you stand him, Doctor?_"_

I glanced up in surprise from my desk as the exasperated tone reached my ears, and Holmes jumped and tossed down his beloved Stradivarius, a black scowl covering his face at being told he was annoying by anyone other than myself.

"No one asked the two of you to drop in here without an invitation! Why the devil didn't you get a hotel until your boat leaves?"

Our old friend glared first at Holmes, then at his young associate, who suddenly found the bullet-pocks in the wall rather interesting and was studiously looking at them and not the midshipman.

"I'd planned on it," Lachlan growled, "but I _hadn't_ planned on Renie gambling our last chunk of cash away in that game of whist in Portsmouth last night."

"Well how was I to know it was rigged?" the reporter asked mournfully, kicking the table leg with a rueful grimace.

"Lad, you've not played enough cards to know when the deck is stacked," Lachlan growled, "and you Yanks can't play a decent game anyhow."

"That's not true! I'll have you know, an old friend of mine was a poker dealer on a Mississippi steamboat, and –"

"Bah, you and your American friends, trigger-happy Yanks the lot of ye!"

I sighed and shared a glanced with Holmes, whose annoyance was fast fading to a ridiculous grin of amusement as the two across the room bickered like a couple of rivaling schoolboys on a cricket-ground.

It was not exactly in the best of taste for him to then pick up his violin and play a purposefully atrocious rendition of _Yankee Doodle Dandy_. Really, Holmes could be so untactful at times…

Haight turned a rather fearsome glare for one so slight of build upon the mischievous detective and spat derisively, "_Don't_ insult that song with that horrid instrument, if you please, Mr. Holmes!"

I hid a smile as my friend looked rather miffed and the reporter grew more angry by the minute. Americans, honestly, they could be the most hot-tempered lot when it came down to it…

"Would you rather I played _Rule Brittania_?"

"I should think that it would be a crime even in _your_ country to desecrate a national anthem in that fashion!"

I winced, for Holmes really was oversensitive about his playing. The detective's face flushed a deep crimson, and I saw Lachlan hide a wide guffaw behind his back.

"Besides," Haight went on with a more quiet, and very devious glance, "that would be rather ridiculous a song to play on this date in history, would it not?"

_Point for Haight._

Holmes shrugged rather gracelessly. "You cannot hold _me_ personally responsible for a rather exorbitant tea tax."

"Rather exorbitant tea tax!" the American shouted indignantly, "you really think we went to war over something so unimportant as your national drink?"

No wonder those Americans lived on coffee…

Holmes shrugged again. "I agree that His Majesty was rather overstepping his bounds in the colonies at that point in history, but honestly, you Americans…Australia and India have not had such a large problem with us yet."

"_Yet_," Haight retorted, "you just wait and see – no empire lives forever, Mr. Holmes, not even your precious British one! You just wait, one day America will be a greater world power than England!"

"Rubbish," I finally interjected hotly, for I was rather more patriotic by nature than Holmes, whose interest in politics began and ended with what laws they would pass regarding the criminal world. "Haven't you heard the saying 'The sun never sets on the British Empire'?"

Haight's eyes gleamed. "It certainly set on the colonies this day in history, now didn't it?"

Lachlan sighed tolerantly. "Renie, that's enough…"

"Enough? You're just ashamed that a bunch of brash, hot-headed colonials kicked your –"

"Renie!"

Haight blushed and sat back down. "Sorry. No offense meant, gentlemen. I just am frustrated that I can't be home on the Fourth. I miss the fireworks."

"The what?" I asked curiously, for I had not heard much of American customs on what they so proudly called _Independence Day_.

"On the night of the Fourth, every city in the States has a fireworks display," Haight said excitedly, his brown eyes shining, "and everyone turns out to see it – there's usually a barbecue, corn on the cob, apple pie –"

"Apple what?" Holmes asked.

"Apple pie, of course. You mean to tell me you've never had an apple pie, Mr. Holmes?" The lad gasped as if this were a criminal offense…perhaps it _was,_ where he hailed from…

"I must confess it is not a regular part of my diet," Holmes replied dryly. "Shepherd's pie, kidney pie, yes…but _apple_ pie? Is it a main course or a dessert?"

"My gosh, what in the world! It's a dessert, of course! In the States, you're not a true-blue American if you don't like apple pie!"

"You're not _in_ the States, Renie," Lachlan drawled, sipping his tea with the air of a man that has put up with this sort of thing too many times to count.

"Yeah, but still!"

"How many hours until your boat leaves, Lachlan?" Holmes asked wearily.

The seaman yawned and pulled out his watch. "Four."

The detective moaned and glanced toward his desk drawer, which I promptly shut on his Moroccan case with a pointed glare. He then sighed and picked up his violin again, glancing evilly at the American pacing in front of our windows.

However, as the young fellow paused and leant sadly against the wall, looking morosely over the London city life with a downcast countenance, Holmes's irritation faded from his face as visibly as the dampness of ink from a page of recent writing.

And instead of giving a sound reminiscent of a cat either being trodden on or run over by an omnibus, his violin began to put forth an actually very respectful rendition of what I recognised as the American national anthem, _The Star-Spangled Banner_.

Lachlan cocked a blonde eyebrow at me before his features softened into a fond smile as he glanced over at his young friend. Haight had stiffened at first upon hearing the familiar melody, but within five seconds was standing rigidly at attention, his head bowed out of respect and loyalty to his country.

When Holmes had finished, the last few notes lingering in the suddenly still air of the sitting room, the detective cleared his throat a bit nervously, shooting a slightly timid glance at the American.

"There are certain things, Mr. Haight, that even my irreverence would never attempt to parody, or _desecrate_, as you so aptly put it," he said quietly, setting the instrument back in its case with a quiet smile.

* * *

_Today is my six-month anniversary of being a member of Ye Olde Fanfiction Site, in addition to being Independence Day, so a double holiday for me!_

_Thank you to everyone who has kindly read and reviewed my stories, and Happy Fourth of July!_


	7. Halloween

_ARGH! Anyone else think the new page overhaul is a pain in the neck? (scowls) Anyhow. I apologise in advance for the melancholy content, but plot bunnies spring from random places sometimes and insist upon being written._

* * *

I am not a fanciful man by any stretch, and as such have never held much stock in holidays; Christian, pagan, or political, none of them are any different from any other day of the year except in that the world around me expects me to participate in celebrations of them. In fact, until Watson gave me a Christmas present so many years ago in that first Christmas spent in Baker Street, I do not believe I ever had even the vaguest urge to notice the difference in those days our society calls holidays.

This particular All Hallow's Eve, however, was noteworthy not for its heralding an interesting case, nor for its expected rise of supposed brushes with the supernatural that the populace claims to have had each year, nor for any particular historical event of significance, but for a personal lesson I believe I may say to have taken to heart as best I can.

The month of October that year of 1894 was a bitterly cold one, fluctuating between the usual equinoxial rains that drowned the city on a regular basis and bitter frosty cold snaps that put a film of icy frost upon everything until close upon noon of a morning. At the close of the month, the rains had returned with unusual vigour even for them, and hardly a day went by without thunder shaking our little house in Baker Street.

We had been absolutely swamped since my return in the spring with cases from the young and old, rich and poor; problems both intriguing and petty, desperate and trite, and everything in between – that October was no exception. By the time the thirty-first made its appearance, I had taken on at least two dozen cases that month and both Watson and I were absolutely exhausted.

My weariness stemmed from what Watson called overwork and underfeeding, but as that was a normal state of being for me I did not mind it so much. His fatigue came from the fact that above all else that he is to me and the rest of the world, he is and always will remain a physician first and foremost. And as such, he refuses to turn away anyone who comes to him for medical aid if it is within his power to administer it.

In consequence, the endearing fool had rashly volunteered his time to fill in for a local physician (an old friend from his days at Netley) over in Paddington, the consulting-room being not far from the location of his first practice, and was attempting to successfully juggle consulting-room hours and assisting me in my cases.

I was not at all happy over the situation; either that he was choosing to treat coughs and chills rather than guarding my back (though if I told him I were in danger he would immediately close up shop, it made things deucedly awkward), or that he was quite obviously running himself into the ground, judging from the way he came home at night, barely spoke two words to me over supper, and then either went straight to bed or never made it up the stairs at all, falling asleep in his armchair before the fire.

One can understand how even I, detached and unemotional individual that I am, grew more than a little alarmed when this particular night he did not come home at his usual hour. Or an hour after that, or even three.

I paced the floor uneasily, my latest case driven from my mind by the irregularity (I do hate habits being broken); for usually if he were going to be too late for dinner he would send a wire or a message at least. It had now been nearly four hours past his normal arrival time, and no such word.

Mrs. Hudson wailed about dinner being stone-cold. I ran low on tobacco, smoking more heavily than I meant to. She fussed over how the fire was not keeping up with the chill in the room. I noticed how quickly the temperature was plummeting outside the house. She took the dishes downstairs to warm them up later. I stood at the window, watching the street below.

She called me a cab; I left the house.

It was only a five or ten minute drive to the consulting-room where he was acting as a locum. When I got there, a light was burning in the back of the house but not in the front rooms; I called for the driver to wait, turning up my collar against the freezing rain, and banged on the door quite briskly.

When no one answered, I attempted the action once more, and this time a tired-looking housemaid answered.

"I'm sorry, sir, but the Doctor's hours are from –"

"I am not a patient, Miss," I interrupted brusquely, for I had no time to waste in courtesies. "I am Sherlock Holmes." That should be explanation enough. "Is Dr. Watson still here?"

The maid evidently either recognised my name or simply did not care who I was, for she shook her head. "No, sir, he went out on a house call toward the end of the night, sir. A house in St. John's Wood, I believe."

I was tired of rain running down my neck and so I stepped into the hall despite the girl's protests. "How long ago was this?"

"Five hour or more, sir – is somethin' wrong? That's not too long a time for a house call, sir," she informed me dubiously.

I frowned. "No, nothing wrong necessarily…though he usually sends a note if he is going to be so late getting home."

"It was a very sudden thing, sir – fellow came flyin' in here in a real state, he was," the girl volunteered this information with wide eyes and an earnest helpfulness. "The Doctor took him into the consulting room and then left a moment later, tellin' me 'twas an emergency and he wouldn't be back tonight. That's all I know of the business, Mr. Holmes."

"I need the address of the place he went to," I said with a frown. Though in all probability I was making something of nothing, it still was better to be safe than regret it later.

"I can't give you that, sir."

"Oh, come, my dear girl – I am Sherlock Holmes; I am fairly certain I could get it one way or another, you will only be expediting matters," I stated dryly, and with a deal of impatience.

"No, sir, I mean I've no idea who the fellow was," the maid answered with a small shrug. "He had no appointment, and like I said they left soon after. I'm afraid I can't help you, I only heard the Doctor tellin' the cabbie to drive to somewhere St. John's Wood."

"You heard no address?" I asked.

"No, sir, I was shuttin' the door against the rain, you see."

I bit back a curse out of respect for the fairer sex, brusquely thanking the girl for her help (or rather information, as it was not much real help) and then dashing through the frigid rain back to the cab, where I sat for a moment and fumed over my inability to locate my friend.

Finding a man in the dark on any night is nigh on impossible, and on one where various stages of celebration were in progress for this mad holiday it would be absolutely useless to even consider the attempt. I reluctantly returned to Baker Street cold, wet, and (yes, I admit it, for there is no shame in it) worried.

Mrs. Hudson continued ragging me to eat something. I emptied my Persian slipper and moved on to my cigarettes. She turned off the gas in the halls. I stoked the fire and wore a path in the carpet. She finally took herself off to bed; I continued my pacing.

It was nearly midnight – the witching hour, on All Hallow's Eve – when I heard the front door open. I resisted the urge to pelt down the stairs and wring the man's neck for worrying me in that manner, contenting myself with merely listening. He was limping, rather badly – a sure sign of a long and weary day – and it took him far longer than normal to ascend the stairs.

Once on the landing he hesitated, knowing that I would still be up, and obviously debated whether or not to check in with me. Either courtesy or some other reason won over, for the door opened and he stumbled in, looking more dead than alive and dripping wet…had he walked all the way from St. John's Wood?

But it was not that fact which caused me enough concern that I threw my irritation with him to the wind and made my way over – it was the fact that his eyes looked…haunted, I supposed was the most apt description. Absolutely miserable and sad and weary and ghostly all at once, a look I had only rarely seen before and only in those unguarded moments following his sometimes too-vivid nightmares.

"Mrs. Hudson was worried about you," I said quietly, knowing that he would understand in the words that I was as well.

He looked dully at me as if unseeing for a moment before rubbing a hand over his eyes. "I'm sorry – things happened so quickly I'd no time to send word," he replied, his voice soft but flatly devoid of any emotion or feeling whatsoever. Another fact that was cause for concern, as it was highly unusual.

"You look as if you could do with a drink, Watson."

"What?" He blinked for a moment at me, obviously uncomprehending, and then shook himself as if waking from a dream. "Oh…yes, thank you…" he trailed off weakly, putting a hand to his head again.

"Doctor, are you ill?" I asked quickly, seeing how unsteadily he was standing.

"No…just…no, I'm not," he changed whatever he had been going to say and gratefully accepted the glass I held out to him.

I frowned, and the expression deepened as I saw him throw back the entire drink at one gulp – that was very definitely abnormal for him. My concern only grew greater when he set the glass down and I could see his hand shaking, and not just from the wet and cold.

"Thank you – good night, Holmes," he whispered, shutting the door behind him without a word, and before I could even say anything to him in reply.

What the devil was wrong with the man? Obviously something had happened that he had no wish to discuss with me, but what? And why did he not feel like he could talk to me about it? Had I always seemed so absolutely cold and distant that he could not trust me with what was bothering him?

My irritation of earlier with him returned now in full force, only to fix upon myself for not knowing what to do to help matters. It was with a feeling of deep unease that I finally took myself off to bed shortly before midnight.

I was rudely awakened what seemed to be not a long while later, and by a sound that froze my blood in my veins even more than it was already, what with the dropping temperature and my frigid room. I sighed, for I had been afraid of that.

I shoved my feet into my slippers and tied my dressing-gown on my way up the steps. Reaching the top, I did not bother to knock but pushed the bedroom door open, feeling a peculiar tightening in my chest at the sight of my poor friend lying shivering on his bed, the blankets twisted on the floor, discarded in an unconscious struggle and so not giving any warmth at all. He was obviously in the grip of yet another of those cruel nightmares, and after many years of such I had learnt, albeit clumsily, what awkward comfort I could offer.

He cried out softly as I turned the gas on to a soft glow. Then he subsided into a low sad murmuring, and as I approached I could see the traces of unconscious tears on his face.

"Oh, my dear fellow," I sighed softly, wishing to heaven that such things would not see fit to haunt the most undeserving of people. I placed a hand on his shoulder – my word, he was freezing – and spoke gently. "Come, Watson. Wake up."

He murmured something I could not distinguish clearly, moving under my hand and giving a soft moan of distress. I swallowed and shook him slightly. "Watson. Wake up, old fellow."

He turned his head toward my voice, though he remained unaware of my presence, and shifted uneasily, groping for a blanket that was no longer there. I dived down and retrieved the discarded covers, putting them back over him before speaking to him again. "Watson. Come on, man, wake up."

His face grew more troubled, a tear escaping his eye and rolling down to hit the pillow. "Mary?" he murmured pleadingly, and at the word I felt a pang clench round my heart. What could have triggered this?

He called his wife's name again, in an increasingly distressed voice, more like a sob than anything else, and finally I took hold of both his shoulders and shook him gently but firmly. "Watson. Wake up, old chap. Watson?"

"No…" he murmured, moving his head, "don't leave…Mary?"

I cursed myself for having to wake him out of one of the few times he could see her again on this earth, but I could not allow him to suffer any longer – another tear had already fallen and before long more would follow.

"Come on, Watson," I said through clenched teeth, shaking him a bit more firmly. "I'm sorry, old fellow…but you have to wake up now. Watson!"

I had seated myself on the edge of the bed at some point, and so when I did succeed in breaking through the dream plaguing him he gave a frightened cry and sat bolt upright, narrowly avoiding knocking his head into mine. He was breathing far too quickly, and completely unaware or uncaring that tears were falling down his face with the pain of whatever had been reawakened by the night's events. The hands that had come at some point to grip my arms were as cold as ice, and he was trembling all over.

"What…" he gasped, his eyes unseeing for a moment as the mists cleared. Then recognition flooded through them, and then a moment later remembrance, and then his last small vestige of composure completely crumpled before my eyes. "Oh, no…" His heartbroken whisper, uttered in a tone of longing despair, sent a pang through my own heart, for there was nothing in the world I despised more than to see him in such pain.

In consequence, I did not pull away or even flinch when he began to sob silently, his head bent over his hands still upon my arms, until I hesitantly detached one to put an arm round his shoulders. Thus encouraged, the flood-gates opened on the instant and for a moment he allowed himself release from the grief of loss and memory, clinging to my dressing-gown in an effort to steady himself. Though I was considerably uncomfortable, I was well aware of what he needed, and I somewhat awkwardly patted his back as he shook and shuddered in an effort to regain his composure.

For several moments we remained in that silent position – I silent because I had no idea what to say that might be helpful, and he apparently content to know he was not alone in the graveyard of his memories.

Finally he stopped trembling so badly, and his breathing calmed down enough that I released his shoulders and he sat back, too exhausted to do more than blush at his loss of control – not that I blamed him for it, for I knew all too well the horrors the mind was capable of betraying itself with and how sick one felt afterwards.

I was more concerned with what had triggered this – for it had been quite a while since he had had a nightmare of any sort, much less one about his deceased wife. I knew the answer lay in what had transpired this evening, and I also knew neither of us would be sleeping much more this night.

"We need to talk," I said calmly, as he watched me without saying a word. "And not in here, it is too dashed freezing. Get your dressing-gown on and I'll run down to see about a drink and the fire, all right?"

He nodded hastily, swallowing hard and dashing a hand in irritation across his eyes, no doubt embarrassed at what had transpired though he had no reason to be. I placed a hand briefly on his shoulder as I rose slowly, turning the gas up as I left the room, and descended the stairs to kick some life into the fire.

By the time he had scrubbed his face and made his way downstairs, I had a tolerable blaze burning and had pulled the sofa closer to the fire rather than our armchairs, in case my friend would want to spend the night there rather than his room. He stumbled in and seated himself on it without a word, while I watched him in some concern and poured a stiff brandy.

He accepted the glass with a murmured word of thanks and then drained half of it, rubbing his eyes all the while. Only when he had finished it did I sit beside him and, leaning back in an effort to remain casual, begin slowly.

"This house-call you took tonight – what on earth could have upset you so, my dear fellow?" I asked with as much gentleness as I could muster.

He sighed. "I suppose you went looking for me?"

"Well, yes – merely to ascertain that you had not been run over by a cab in the dark or spirited away by a wayward goblin this fine All Hallow's Eve," I returned in an effort to infuse a bit of humour into the situation.

I received a ghost of a smile, which was better than nothing but not good as the genuine article. Then it faded back to that haunted look, and he stared into the flickering flames for a long, long minute in silence.

"It…it has been a long time since I lost a patient," he finally whispered.

Oh, no…

"The last time I lost a patient…" he swallowed hard and the glass in his hands shook as he went on, "was when I lost Mary, Holmes. It was nine months ago, I know, but still I…" His voice shook and then broke on the last word, and he cast his eyes down angrily.

I remained silently supportive, knowing that saying nothing and simply listening was better than fumbling for the correct thing to say and failing miserably.

"This poor young fellow tonight," he whispered. "So young, they both were so young…"

I winced in sympathy, for it took no great deduction to see the reason for his distress.

"She was too young and weak to be having a baby this time of year in a cold snap," my friend whispered miserably. "I know that there really wasn't anything I could do, but…still…I _should_ have been able to do something…I am a _doctor_, for the love of heaven!"

"Watson, it is not your fault –"

"It doesn't matter," he cried bitterly, setting the glass on the carpet and leaning forward with his elbows upon his knees and his head in his hands. "The only thing that matters now is that yet _another_ man in this city has to go through life forever without the woman he loves! I, a _healer_ – I do not even deserve to bear the title if I cannot prevent that sort of pain and suffering!"

I was utterly horrified to hear him even contemplating such a sentiment, and for a moment was at a loss as to how to counter it. He took a short shudder of a breath and lifted his head to stare morosely into the firelight.

"I mean it, Holmes – look at it logically; what real good do I or any other physician actually do? We merely prolong life for those who are already healthy, and half the time we cannot save those who are not. I could not even save my own wife, Holmes – and obviously I could not save that young fellow's either. No man should have to bear that sort of responsibility," he whispered miserably, a single tear rolling down the side of his face. " Or that sort of guilt," he added in a murmured afterthought.

"Watson…" I began uncertainly, casting about for what to say and failing miserably to think of the appropriate words – perhaps I should for once speak without thinking and merely what I believed, then... "You are a _doctor_, not a _miracle-worker_, for the love of heaven! You do nothing to control when a soul leaves the earth – that responsibility does not belong to us mortals and we cannot do anything to change Fate. Your role as a physician is to make that passage into the next life as painless as it can be, and to prolong the person's time on earth if possible and if the Fates allow it – you are _not_ a deity, Doctor!"

Where that had all come from, I had no idea, but I could not bear to see the broken man before me berating himself for matters beyond any mortal control. Of all people in the world, he did not deserve to be haunted by such guilt and grief.

"Still…" he whispered, dashing angrily at a tear glistening in the corner of his eye. "What difference do we really make, in the grand scheme of life – where it _really matters_?"

"Watson, look at me," I said seriously, putting a hand on his shoulder and bending forward to meet his pained gaze. "I could bring in half those blundering constables and sergeants at Scotland Yard whose children you've treated for scarlet fever or whooping-cough or anything else that makes the rounds every year, and they each would tell you the answer to that question. The same would go for the men themselves, for the clients we've had injured…for _me_, Watson, for the countless times when you were the only thing that saved my life from my own foolishness. Each person in the world _really matters_ to someone, Watson."

He looked at me with some incredulity, though a few of the ghosts lingering in his eyes had begun to soften and depart. "That's a rather odd statement coming from you, Holmes," he said softly. "Where did you learn that?"

I hesitated only a moment before answering. "From you, my dear fellow. Because I never realised it was true, regarding myself at least, until I met you. I'd no idea whatsoever that someone could actually be mad enough to grow fond of this cynical, eccentric consulting detective."

His haunted eyes met mine and held for a long moment, a tiny smile quirking the corners of his moustache.

"Therefore," I continued a little awkwardly, "the _grand scheme_, as you so call it, is not where one truly makes a difference in this life; rather it is to one person at a time. And even you, my dear friend, cannot win everyone, much as you deserve to."

My dear Watson looked at me for a long moment in a slightly skeptical inquiry, before more of the ghosts finally left his eyes and a shy smile broke across his lined, careworn face. I sighed in some relief at the sight, feeling my own tension at the uncomfortable situation leave me now that the thing was over – these matters never have been my strong point (never been a point at all until that man changed things so many years ago) and I had been deathly afraid I was not helping in the least.

"We should have these late-night philosophical discussions more often, Holmes, if it will get you to think outside your genius head once in a while," Watson said with a faint trace of his usual grin.

I snorted, and he smiled again and rubbed his eyes wearily. "I'm sorry I didn't send word tonight," he apologised. "I was too…distraught…by the similarity in the situation…I barely remember leaving the consulting room."

"You've no cause to explain yourself to me, Watson – though I was a bit alarmed at the time. Now. Suppose you lie down here and see if I can put you to sleep, hmm?" I inquired softly, rising and putting a gentle hand on his shoulder for a moment.

He nodded without a word, looking gratefully up at me. I squeezed his shoulder once before moving on to my Stradivarius while he pulled the afghan off the back of the couch and then settled down on the narrow seat, staring moodily into the fire with weary eyes. I lifted my lovely instrument to my chin and began improvising, with the sole purpose of putting him to sleep as softly and smoothly as possible.

I do not believe in the spirits of the dead walking the earth on this night of the year to add other souls to their number, nor do I take any stock in the usual claptrap about vampires, goblins, and ghouls, that the children of our day are regaled with over hot cider of these evenings.

I do, however, very much believe in ghosts – of the mind, at least, for they haunt even the best and bravest of men.

Which is why I attempt at all times to remain flat-footed on the ground; for _someone_ in the world must, to act as an anchor to those others who are privileged to feel and love and hurt deeply, as my dear Watson does among that number.

By the time I had finished my composition, the clock had struck one in the morning. The holiday with all its spirits and apparitions was well over, the celebrations at an end, the supernatural legends (whatever they might be) disappeared, melted for another year into the stuff of dreams and old wives' tales.

And my friend had fallen into a calm sleep, only stirring slightly without waking when I retrieved another blanket and put it over him, to ward off the chill.

I remained in the room for the rest of the night, to ward off the ghosts.

* * *


	8. Guy Fawkes' Night

_I'll apologise in advance for what I feel is disjointedness in this - originally I had planned to do this for Halloween until I did some research and realised England did not celebrate Halloween like America did in those days. Trying to adapt the thing halfway through writing it I feel made it a bit choppy, but I didn't want to be late posting for a holiday as it would mess up the sequence. Anyway, I'll shut up now. Dedicated to my chum **PGF**:_

* * *

It was, I recall, a dank and miserable night in London that Guy Fawkes' Night so many years ago. Contrary to the usual autumnal gales that sought to drown our isle in their watery grips, this particular night not a drop of rain had yet fallen as I made my way home from a particularly strenuous house-call.

Instead of the usual equinoxial downpour, the city was blanketed with a cloud cover so dense that not a speck of moonlight could be seen in the sky, and a chill rolled off the Thames and bounced back from the cloud-bank to freeze the city in an unseasonably cold spell, much to the dismay of the holiday revelers whose festivities were curtailed or cramped due to the chill.

By the time I reached Baker Street, I was half frozen through – though the physical chill was as nothing compared to the mental frigidness that had kept both Sherlock Holmes and me in its icy grip for two days thus far, a chill that was only accentuated and enhanced by the events of my horrible evening.

My nerves, I freely admit, were completely shot by the time I let myself in with my key, watching carefully behind me for any signs of pursuit other than the street urchin Holmes had assigned to me, not that I would be able to see an assailant (I could not even see our little Irregular) in the darkness.

The house was also dark, though I could see a light emanating from under the sitting-room door, and seemed dismal and sombre without our wonderful landlady's comforting presence; but it would not do to have her in the way of whatever danger was sure to transpire before the evening were out.

I made my way up the stairs slowly due to the pain in my leg from the old wound I had sustained those years ago, aggravated from the vile weather and the strain of the last few days. Finally I reached the sitting room and pushed the door open, giving a sigh of gratitude when I saw the blazing fire in the hearth beckon to me invitingly.

But a soft click behind the door in back of me caused me to react instantly. In one motion I had ducked behind the deal table by the wall, drawing my revolver and facing it opposite me.

"My apologies, Watson…" Holmes murmured, hastily pointing his own gun toward the ceiling and not at me.

I breathed a shaky sigh of limp relief and lowered my weapon in a trembling hand, setting it on the table and removing my stiff, cold coat.

"You look frozen solid," he said worriedly.

"I'm fine," I said shortly, trying to block out the events of the evening as he took my coat and slung it over the chair as I pocketed my revolver.

"You weren't followed, nothing out of the ordinary happened, nothing went wrong?" he asked in the same breath, drawing on his oldest pipe as if desperately clinging to the wretched thing for comfort.

"Other nearly losing a child to the croup, no, nothing!" I snapped viciously, stalking to the heavily draped window and staring at the blank shade, dashing angrily at my eyes.

I was shivering and I ached all over, but the physical pain was secondary to the mental turmoil filling my mind.

"I was late getting there after I got the call because I couldn't take the solitary cab on the street, it was too conveniently placed," I whispered bitterly. "And the boy nearly _died_, Holmes – because of that man, because I barely got there in time…because I followed your _orders_ instead of my _Oath_…since when has that become morally correct with me? One day I may go too far and someone will suffer for it…"

Tentative footsteps drew closer to me, and then I felt two strong hands on my shoulders, gently turning me from the curtained window toward the fire. I was too cold and tired to resist the wordless attempt at comfort, and finally collapsed into my chair with my head in my hands for a long moment.

One hand had not left its place on my shoulder. "I'm sorry – heaven knows that's all you needed tonight," I heard a helplessly pained voice above me.

I ran a hand over my face in an effort to regain my control, sitting back in my chair and taking a long breath with my eyes closed.

"Have you heard any news?" I finally asked, as an intimation that I was past my shakiness.

His hand squeezed gently once before releasing to knock the ashes out of his pipe; then he sat across from me and refilled the thing with an expression void of any emotion except tenseness. "No, nothing. Lestrade says they've got every available man on the case but…"

"He's eluded them before, we both know that," I supplied with a repressed moan, leaning my head on my hand. "We have to just sit here and wait for him to kill us?"

"I would rather meet the man in my own territory – had that call not been so dreadfully urgent I never would have allowed you to go, despite the fact that I would like to see you clear of the place before the drama starts," Holmes muttered uneasily.

"We have until midnight, was what he said at the trial," I whispered, equally uneasily. I glanced up at the clock. Barely a quarter past eight.

"Yes," Holmes returned in an equally subdued voice.

"You are really taking this seriously, aren't you?" I asked softly.

"I know the man's mind, Watson, how he thinks, how he plots," my friend said, clenching his teeth on the stem of his pipe. "A man who could break out of Newgate prison is dangerous alone, but a man of this fellow's intelligence and resources, and the fact that he has had over twenty-four hours to disappear and plan his revenge…yes, my dear fellow, I am taking this as serious as death. My death."

"But surely that claptrap in the court-room, yelling at you like that of how he was going to revenge himself…surely that cannot possibly be the mark of a rationally intelligent mind – more of an unstable, emotional fellow," I suggested the old argument as I had several times now, since we received word that this criminal, one Simon Murrell, had indeed escaped as he had promised he would, for the sole purpose of murdering Sherlock Holmes before Murrell was hanged for his crimes on the following day, November 6.

"Be that as it may, Watson, I still believe he will carry out his word – you remember the precision with which he killed those five women," Holmes brooded. "He will turn that same methodical, logical precision to exterminating me in another such creative way."

I shivered, rubbing my eyes nervously as I kept the headache at bay that had been eating at me all day.

"I suppose it would be stupid of me to suggest you attempt to get some rest, old fellow?" Holmes suggested quietly.

I shook my head. "Rather. If you are going to wait up here for the man, there is no possible way in heaven or hell that I am budging from this room."

"You could hop into my bedroom and sleep with the door open," he said gently. "Well within call if something were to happen – you sleep rather lightly anyhow, you know."

I shook my head again, staring morbidly into the fire. "I can't sleep…I doubt I shall be able to for a while to come," I whispered.

Holmes gave a soft sigh through his nose and ran a hand through his hair. "I shall be thoroughly glad when this infernal night is over," he muttered. "Between my own inactivity and that police guard outside the door checking in every half-hour, I am rapidly dangling at the end of my tether."

I sat bolt upright, staring at my friend and feeling a cold chill shiver down my spine. "A police-guard?" I asked shakily.

He looked at me quizzically. "Yes, Lestrade posted one soon after you left this morning – they rotate every hour. Why?"

"Holmes," I dropped my voice to a whisper, leaning forward in a slight panic. "There was no guard on duty at the door when I came in!"

His already pale face turned a chalky white. "Are you certain he wasn't just loafing about in the vicinity?"

"I am certain," I whispered, removing my revolver from my pocket and glancing round me with ever-mounting apprehension.

Holmes stood and dropped his pipe onto the mantel on the instant, his keen eyes traveling round the room as I edged uneasily to his side, watching every shadow as well.

"We must get out of this house," he finally whispered. "He in all probability is here somewhere, waiting for what he regards as the appropriate moment for his theatrics."

I only realised I was shaking when the detective's icy hand clamped down on my shoulder and gave me a firm shake. "Calm down, Doctor," he hissed coldly. "I need your head right now, not your heart. Give me that revolver, and then fetch your coat, quickly, and toss me mine while I cover you."

I gulped hard, doing as I was bade and fetching our overcoats and Holmes's revolver, handing the items over to him and taking my own weapon back.

"You think it is wise to leave the house – out into the open like this? I thought you wanted to meet him on your own territory," I whispered unsteadily.

"It is too risky with this sudden turn of the stakes. Now. Start down the stairs, Watson; in the darkness at least you will not be a good target. I shall stay at the top of the steps until you are safely at the door, for in all probability he is in your room or mine or the lumber-room above yours," he whispered in my ear. "If you hear a scuffle above you, don't stop, don't wait – run. Run for all you're worth and get the constable on the beat outside. Do you understand me?"

I knew we had no time to argue the matter; besides, I was still a soldier and as such obeyed a commanding officer instinctively. "Be careful," I whispered, peeking out into the shadowed hall and then beginning to feel my way downwards, counting to seventeen and hearing the difference of sound when my shoes met linoleum instead of carpeted steps.

Holmes heard the difference of sound as well and then started down the steps after me; I could scarcely hear his barely perceptible footsteps for his tread was light as a cat's. I waited by the door, one hand on the door-handle and the other on the gun in my hand, until I felt him settle into the darkness beside me and fall silent.

The house creaked and groaned slightly in the autumnal wind, but no other sound was heard at all.

"When I give the word, Watson," Holmes breathed, barely audibly, in my ear, "open that door and dash out – don't wait for me, just go and get out of the street-light."

I nodded before remembering he could not see me and instead squeezed his arm to let him know I heard. My hand stole to the door-handle and I heard an intake of breath as Holmes was no doubt about to speak –

When we both heard it. A small, very very faint creak – coming from his bedroom.

"He was in your room," I whispered in horror.

My heart was pounding in my ears so loudly that I could count my pulse without the aid of feeling my wrist – and it was far too high, the blood was rushing through my head.

"The silence has made him suspicious," Holmes muttered noiselessly. "We must get out, Watson – he dispatched his last victim by setting an explosive charge under her dressing table; we can take no chances in remaining."

I swallowed hard, trying to slow my too-rapid breathing. My nerves were indeed shot, and I realised the fact with some shame. I took a long slow breath as Holmes's hand came down on my wrist.

"Have you the door?" Holmes whispered in my ear.

"Yes," I breathed.

"Right…right…then –"

"I wouldn't, gentlemen," a calm, almost amused voice rang out above us quite clearly, causing me to gasp involuntarily and Holmes's hand to tighten on my arm as he started.

"I've a sniper waiting in the doorway across the street, Mr. Holmes. Though I would enjoy seeing your head blown into pieces all over your friend I should hate to see you deprive me of the privilege of killing you myself. No, you will not get out that way, Mr. Holmes." A quiet little chuckle that turned my blood into so many painful drops of ice cramping my veins sounded into the stillness, a mirthful and entirely calm noise that put me more on edge than I should ever have liked to admit.

"Get away from the door," Holmes murmured, tugging me back toward the alcove beside the stairs. I understood – perhaps we could get out through Mrs. Hudson's quarters. But as he stealthily opened the door…

"Good Lord," Holmes gasped, holding his breath and backing away from the door to the woman's rooms, and I choked in several lungfuls of the sickly-smelling gas, coughing despite my efforts to be silent, before Holmes had managed to shut the door. Our pursuer had turned the gas on and not lit the stove, and the entire back apartment reeked of it.

I coughed again harshly and painfully, trying to get the foul stuff out of my lungs, and felt Holmes push me against the wall of the stairs, slightly shielded from the top of the flight.

"Stay here," he hissed in my ear between my coughing spasms. "It will take a while for the gas to reach you, and I am the one he is really after."

"No," I gasped, choking in a lungful of better air at last and feeling the coolness ease my throat.

"Dear, dear, Mr. Holmes – you really think I am going to allow you to escape this house so easily?" the voice above us tut-tutted in disapproval. "Your exits are all blocked, gentlemen – and yes, it is gentle_men_, Holmes, for I know you both are down there now – I am deeply surprised you did not hear me enter earlier this evening, just before the Doctor arrived."

I was still trying to regain my breath but I could hear clearly – and feel too, as Holmes's hands tightened on my arms.

"I did doze off for a few minutes," he muttered self-deprecatingly.

"Don't…blame yourself," I gasped, drawing a long shuddering breath and feeling my head begin to clear slightly.

I knew for a fact that my friend had not slept in at least two days and had eaten only a meal or two – and the villain who was now after him had murdered five different women in five different ways, each of them simply unnatural methods of murder showing a creative mind run to the brink of insanity. Such a man's irrational behaviour could not be predicted, even by Sherlock Holmes.

And now we were trapped in a house with Murrell, and our first-floor exits effectively blocked and he waiting for us up above.

"If I keep him talking, do you think you could make it through the gas to the back door?" Holmes whispered in my ear.

"No possible way," I replied shakily, and not merely because I was not about to leave him but because if I keeled over in there both of us would be done for. Besides, all it would take would be for me to create too much friction and the entire first floor would go up in flames.

A cold chill swept over me, and I felt perspiration bead upon my brow and neck – for that had been the method of murder in the fourth victim's case. Was that what he was planning, to force us to choose one of the five methods of murder for ourselves?

And a sniper across the street…that had been the very first method of murder in the first victim's case…

"Holmes!" I whispered.

"I know, Watson, I know," he said in a low tone; no doubt his mind already had gripped the situation with its usual clarity. "But we are not dead yet."

"Are you quite through discussing my _modus operandi_, Mr. Holmes? Because I should like to not have to bellow over this banister any longer," the voice from the darkness stated in a flat, bored tone.

"He doesn't know we're armed," I suddenly whispered.

"If he was in my bedroom he could hardly have missed that," Holmes replied with a soft curse. "I don't know what –"

"Gentlemen, this would be so much more civil in the light," the man said complacently. "However, due to your rash opening of that back door, Mr. Holmes, I believe lighting the hall gas might possibly be hazardous to this structure's integrity."

I blanched at the thought.

"But I do know you both are armed, so I am afraid I must insist on a measure of caution. Dr. Watson, if you would be so kind as to ascend the steps first, and with your hands in the air," Murrell said coolly. "It may be dark, but you will be silhouetted nicely against the window and I will have a clear target if you try any of those foolish heroics you are so famous for."

I felt Holmes stiffen even as I gulped uneasily in the darkness, feeling a bead of perspiration trickle slowly down my neck and wrap around the top of my collar.

"_Now_, Doctor, if you please – or shall I light a match and drop it down into that increasingly gas-filled hall? Somehow I don't think the ensuing explosion will be beneficial to your healths, gentlemen."

"Do what he says, Watson," Holmes whispered. "We cannot afford to risk all so early in the game. It is I that he wants, and he will play to get me."

"Over my dead body," I muttered, but not loudly enough that Murrell could hear me. I pocketed my revolver and walked uneasily to the bottom of the stairs, looking up at the yawning darkness.

"Slowly now, Doctor."

"And what's to prevent you from shooting me before I reach the top?" I asked defiantly.

"Dear, dear, Doctor – you really think I would do such a thing in such an unplanned, sporadic manner? Dear me no. And regardless, you have no choice in the matter – unless you'd like to see your friend go first in the ensuing explosion for your refusal?"

I told the man where he could go, and he merely laughed, ordering me up the stairs in the darkness once more. Managing the steps was not easy in the daylight with my leg in sub-par condition, and in the pitch-blackness with both hands above my head they were even harder and once I stumbled and fell against the wall.

"None of that, Doctor!" Murrell snapped, and I heard the click of a revolver being cocked.

"I can hardly help the fact that I am half-crippled," I replied dryly, gritting my teeth and continuing up into the yawning blackness that seemed to seep around me, effectively blocking me off from everything and everyone else, wrapping around me and isolating me from sight or sound.

I attempted to still my racing heartbeat as I counted seventeen and knew I had reached the top of the steps, bracing myself, and waiting…

And waiting…

I was not at all prepared for the arm that suddenly snaked round my neck like a constrictor, forcing a startled cry of panic from my lips, my hands instinctively flying to clutch at it as I choked.

"Murrell, stop!" Holmes bellowed from below, his voice tinged with a cold, calculating anger.

"Oh, for the love of heaven, Holmes," that icy voice said in great amusement, just behind my head, causing me to shiver compulsively as I struggled to breathe properly, my blood pounding in my head. "I am merely using him as a shield while I turn the lights on to see you by – I should not like you to have the bright idea of popping off a shot at me in the instant my attention is diverted to the gas jet."

I heard a violent curse above the roaring in my ears, and a moment later the gas hissed and sputtered, filling the hall and the stairs with a golden glow that I could see through the darkness curling at the edges of my vision as I struggled to draw an unobstructed breath. I felt a hand reach into my coat pocket and remove my pistol. Then the pressure on my neck was released, and I staggered against the wall, putting a hand on the cold wood and coughing as my airway was restored.

I regained my feet in time to see Holmes standing halfway up the steps, one hand clenching the banister in a white-knuckled grip and the other holding his revolver pointed at Murrell, but without firing. But why in the world had he not used the weapon he held…

As my vision cleared and I staggered back to my feet, I turned to meet the barrel of my own revolver, pointed directly at my head. Ah, that would probably be why Holmes had not fired his own gun.

"Drop it, Mr. Holmes," Murrell said cheerfully, in as carefree a tone as if discussing the weather. "Must I prove to you that I am not afraid to add one more murder to the list before I crown my accomplishments with your death?"

If looks could kill, Murrell would have been dead before an instant had passed. Holmes scowled darkly, his eyes flashing a cold icy grey fire as they glanced quickly to me. I nodded slightly, telling him to do what he had to, and braced myself.

"If you pull that trigger, I will have a bullet in your heart before your own bullet leaves the chamber," Holmes snapped.

"And then you get to call the police and have them clean _two_ bodies out of your hallway?" Murrell asked calmly, smiling as Holmes's face turned another shade of ashen. "You really want the Doctor's blood staining your hall for the rest of your time on this earth, Mr. Holmes?"

Holmes flinched, barely perceptibly, and I saw his jaw tighten as he faced the man holding the gun on me. I glanced at the criminal and then at the gun he held, deep in thought. If Holmes dropped his weapon, the man no doubt would lose no time in murdering both of us – and we still had no idea if he had given himself other methods of disposing of us such as the explosive under the dressing table. If that were the case we could not afford to waste precious time in melodramatic charades like this.

My desperate thoughts were interrupted by a clank, and I gasped in horror to see that Holmes had dropped his pistol onto the stair with an air of seething resignation.

"That's better," Murrell said with a smile, motioning Holmes up to stand next to me, keeping us both covered with the gun.

For a moment as Holmes reached my side there was no sound within the house. In the street, a bunch of screaming street urchins ran by, no doubt on their way to the normal mischief and merry-making that accompanied the bonfires and everything else of this holiday. The wind had picked up slightly but other than that no noise came close to the house for a moment.

Murrell backed down the stairs to retrieve Holmes's revolver, pocketing it and keeping hold of mine in his right hand. I took the opportunity to look anxiously at Holmes, who shook his head warningly at me before turning his attentions back to our assailant.

"What did you do with the police guard, Murrell?" he demanded.

Our murderer smiled pleasantly at us. "He hasn't been harmed…that much, Mr. Holmes. Surely someone will find him in your back garden at some point in the next day or two, if he hasn't frozen to death by then."

I paled at the thought of one of those gallant Yarders lying injured in our very back lawn – and knowing Murrell the man was probably very badly injured.

Our quarry gave us no time to ponder the matter further, however. "Move back into the sitting room, if you please, gentlemen – it's a bit chilly here in the hall, don't you know," he said cheerfully.

I eyed the mat upon which the fellow was standing, gauging my chances of pulling it out from under him, but Holmes put a firm restraining hand upon my arm when he saw what I was contemplating and pushed me ahead of him into the sitting room.

Murrell shut the door behind us and turned to where we were standing, close together against the sideboard. He pointed my own revolver at me.

"Now, Doctor, I've absolutely no real complaint against you, and I am a just man," he said complacently. "I really have no desire to do you any real harm, and to be quite honest you are only going to be dreadfully in the way of my business with Mr. Holmes. Would you like to stand aside quietly, or would you rather I treat you to a painless and instant death?"

I opened my mouth to tell the man if he wanted to carry out his "business" with my friend, that he would have to step over my body to do it, only to feel Holmes's hand on my arm.

"Do not be foolhardy, Watson!" he hissed in my ear, his harshness tempered with an obvious note of worry. "We are not beaten yet."

"If you think I am going to sit idly by and watch this man murder you, then neither of you know me very well," I declared as best I could, though I was fairly shaking from nervous tension.

"Very well then, Doctor, if that is truly what you wish," Murrell sighed and aimed the revolver at my head.

"Stop!"

Holmes grabbed my arm in a grip so tight that it hurt as Murrell grinned knowingly and hesitated with his finger upon the trigger.

"Don't do this to me, Watson," my friend whispered. "I cannot watch that. Stand down, please – and keep your wits about you."

I clenched my hands tightly in anger and frustration, but I realised the veracity of what he was saying – getting myself killed this instant did not bode well for our chances of getting out of this mess relatively unscathed.

I took a step away from Holmes, not daring to look at him for fear I would lose my nerve.

"That chair there at the table, if you please, Doctor," Murrell directed calmly, indicating the seat with the gun.

Though it went against all my instincts and principles, I sat helplessly while the man secured my hands tightly behind my back with the derbies he had apparently taken from the man he had injured outside our front door, running the chain of the handcuffs around the bar of the wooden chair so that I was effectively trapped in place.

Holmes stood with his arms folded, his keen eyes darting round the room and lighting upon various objects that I knew he was considering to use in an effort to escape this madman's revenge.

"You know that you can't use that revolver without someone hearing you," Holmes said calmly as Murrell straightened up from securing me and moved to a position in front of me.

"In the melee of a Guy Fawkes' Night celebration? Seriously, Mr. Holmes. And besides, your habits are so well known in these parts that one more revolver shot indoors will hardly be a novelty to your neighbours even if it _were_ heard over that din."

He was correct…somehow we had to get help, though, or else Holmes would have to take out the man himself, and heaven only knew how many traps like the gas he had laid around the house.

"So tell me, Murrell…I am well aware of course how you escaped from Newgate, but tell me why you have taken the time and trouble to recreate at least three situations so far in which you killed those unfortunate ladies," Holmes said calmly, leaning against the sideboard for all the world as if talking to a sane and rational friend rather than a vendetta-bent madman.

Three situations – the gas, the sniper…what was the third that he had divined that I had not?

Holmes caught my look and indicated the bottle of wine on the table beside me. He must have had a glass with his supper and realised now that something was amiss with its placement on the table or some such.

That left the two methods of murder being an explosive under the dressing table and…death by strangulation.

I seriously doubted the man would be able to strangle Sherlock Holmes – the man had a grip that could and had bent steel, and after several months in prison Murrell would be no physical match for him, sizable an opponent though he would be.

Did that mean there was an explosive charge around this house somewhere?

"Merely for dramatic effect, Mr. Holmes, merely dramatic effect," the man replied cheerfully. "I know you are also a lover of the arts, and that you would appreciate the trouble I took to make your assassination one of the most colourful in history. Your death will be remembered for quite a long time, Mr. Holmes, and in far more colourful a manner than it was the first time."

"Who says that you are going to be any more successful at accomplishing that end than the dear late Professor Moriarty was?" Holmes asked boredly.

I tentatively struggled with my handcuffs, but they were as sturdy a model as any policeman carried on him and I only served to draw attention to myself with my clanking. Murrell turned and smiled in great amusement in my direction before turning back and stepping toward Holmes, leaving about three feet between us.

Rule number one of survival: never turn your back on an enemy, no matter how well he is secured. I began to smirk, knowing I had an advantage. But my hands were tied, literally as well as figuratively, for that revolver was still pointed directly at my friend – I could do nothing without causing it to go off.

Just then I heard a small noise coming from Holmes's bedroom, where the door remained closed. My friend's steely eyes narrowed a fraction, and I hastily coughed to cover up the sounds.

"I daresay I shall be successful, Holmes." Murrell gave a little laugh of glee, casually inspecting the revolver in his hand. "Because I have planned this every waking moment since I was sent to prison due to your testimony."

I cringed as I saw Holmes's bedroom door creak open – the thing needed oiling badly and was more than audible in the tense stillness of the room. I was even more horrified to see two familiar little faces poke their heads cautiously round the doorway, eyes widening at the sight that met their gazes.

Murrell's gaze and his weapon swiveled to cover the new threat – and giving me the opportunity I needed.

I planted my feet firmly and, grabbing the back of the chair I was cuffed to, swung the furniture with all my might at the murderer standing directly in front of me.

Holmes dived to the left as the gun went off upon my crashing into the fellow, the bullet speeding past to make an errant hole close to the V.R. in the opposite wall. The force of the impact sent Murrell slamming into the sideboard and I crashed awkwardly to the ground, striking my head with some force on the table as I fell and feeling a sharp pain shoot up the length of my arm and shoulder as I hit the floor on my side, stunned.

When the spots had cleared from my somewhat fuzzy vision, I was aware of a dull throbbing in my arm and felt something warm trickling down one of my wrists – no doubt I had sliced them open on the handcuffs in my struggle. A mixture of chaotic sounds accosted my ears as I tried to blink my vision clear.

"Hoi! What the bloody –"

"Alfred Weber, what in _blazes_ are you doing here?"

"Mr. 'Olmes –"

"Never mind – go and get the constable on the beat. Now!"

"But –"

I heard a burst of colourful Cockney swearing just before Holmes's anxious face appeared in my line of vision. "He took the cuffs but not the key, Watson," he said in dismay. "I can't find it on him –"

"Never mind, Holmes!" I nearly shouted in my franticness. "Turn off the gas downstairs and make sure he didn't set an explosive anywhere in the house!"

"Are you hurt?"

"Go, Holmes!" I cried, trying to wriggle into a better position. "There is no time!"

He shot me one more worried look and then bolted for the door, having earlier secured Murrell with one of his own pairs of handcuffs from his desk drawer. Our two Irregulars had long since vanished, apparently, for the room was deserted. At least they had not been harmed by the man bent on vengeance against Holmes, and that was all that mattered. Everything had transpired with such rapidity that I was still endeavouring to process the fact...

I peered under the table to ensure nothing amiss were attached there, and once satisfied slumped back and closed my eyes, trying to ignore the throbbing in my head and arm. I could still move my fingers, though they hurt, and so I doubted I had broken any bones.

Pounding footsteps on the stairs roused me from my stupor, and I opened my eyes to see an unusual trio enter the room and stop short at what met their eyes.

"Doctor Watson! What the devil is going on?" Inspector Lestrade demanded, gawping at the unconscious Murrell and me in my awkward position on the floor before coming over to me to inspect my manacled hands. "Where's Mr. Holmes?"

"'E's up there, 'Nspector," our little lieutenant Alfie piped up, pointing up the stairs to Holmes, who was taking them three at a time down to meet us. "Yew were sure roight, Bert, there _was_ somethin' fishy goin' on in 'ere."

I had completely forgotten about the lad Holmes had sent to follow me earlier – of course he would have noticed if the police guard were not in evidence!

"Let's see if we can get you out of this, Doctor," Lestrade said, digging in his pocket for his own handcuff key. "Sometimes these things can be opened with more than one key…no, that isn't going to work. Mr. Holmes, there you are – what has been going on here?"

"Isn't it brutally obvious even to you, Lestrade?" the detective bellowed, bolting into his bedroom and checking under his dressing table; at least that was what I supposed he was doing, judging from the crashes emanating from his room.

"Watson, what about the table out there?"

"Nothing, Holmes!" I shouted back, repressing a moan of pain as my arm throbbed when I shifted positions.

"Bert, check under my desk and the Doctor's desk," Holmes shouted, diving under the deal table.

"Wha' for, Mr. 'Olmes?" the little blonde urchin asked, his grubby face a picture of puzzlement.

"Anything unusual…no, don't bother, here it is," he said in a more controlled tone. "Simple enough device, if I take the timing mechanism off…there."

Holmes sat up, holding what looked to be a rude clock and various parts of a homemade bomb. "Ingenious – of course he would put it directly under where it would do the most damage, what with the flammable chemicals and so on," the detective said cheerfully, dropping the mess into his bedroom water pitcher and presenting it to Lestrade with a flourish.

"Now, Watson, let me see if I can get you out of those," he went on more gently, snatching his tools from his desk and then kneeling at my side, inspecting the derbies. "Lestrade, where did you come from?"

"This little urchin here came all the way to the Yard to get me, and told me to wait outside while those two lads came in here through your bedroom window. I thought they were operating under your orders so I obeyed. Apparently the scalawags were formulating their own little plot," the Inspector said, watching worriedly while Holmes attempted to unlock the handcuffs.

"Wall we couldn' very well go up an' ring the bleedin' doorbell, now could we, with tha' fella with the gun waitin' across the street?" Alfie demanded.

"The sniper!" I gasped, shooting Holmes a worried look over my shoulder.

"Don't worry, Doctor, I got him before I came up - this lad here had spotted him right off," Lestrade said reassuringly, glancing at Alfie with a look of some respect.

"Tha' bloody idjit bobby on the beat a' the corner tol' me to make meself scarce," Bert fumed indignantly, "so oi 'ad to go all the way to the flippin' Yard ta get someun to listen to me!"

"And thank heaven you did, Bert," Holmes said approvingly, with a warm smile in the lad's direction.

"Oi saw tha' the bobby outside weren't there no more when th' Doctor come back, so I run off quick, I did, an' got Alf to tell me what ta do 'bout it," the lad beamed at his superiour.

"Lestrade!" I nearly shouted, for I had completely forgotten.

"Watson, hold still – your wrists are already chafed and you just made it worse!" Holmes snapped.

"That's not important – Lestrade, Murrell said the policeman he attacked was injured and in our back garden. See to him; he needs medical attention and quickly, if he's been out in the cold with a head injury or some such. Hurry, man!"

"Right, Doctor. Here, you two lads, run out and fetch that constable down the street and tell him Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard is going to see him assigned to Whitechapel if he doesn't get himself down here and be useful," the little official growled, stamping out the door and dragging our boys with him.

"Yew need us fer anythin', Mr. 'Olmes?" Alfie yelled over his shoulder, protesting at being ordered about by anyone but Holmes himself.

"Not just now, but come back when you are finished, lad. Hold on, Watson, I've nearly got it…there!"

I gave a sigh of relief as one of my hands came free, hissing in pain as the metal fell away from the abused skin.

"Easy now…that's it," Holmes murmured, guiding the cuff through the wood to get me free of the chair before starting to release my other hand. I started to sit up and pull my still-manacled hand in front of me, only to see spots dance in front of my eyes for a moment.

"Steady, Watson – are you all right?" I heard his voice in my ear and a firm grip behind my back, keeping me upright until my vision cleared.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine," I replied hastily. "Hit my head on the table, is all…landed on my arm I think, but it's not broken."

"That was excellent quick thinking, old fellow," Holmes said with a grin of approval as he started to work on the other handcuff. "I have to say I was not looking forward to taking my chances in tackling a fully-armed and not entirely sane murderer."

"I am certainly glad we've got him, for good this time," I sighed, giving a little moan of relief as the metal finally fell away under Holmes's expert pick-locksmanship.

"There. Now, to take care of those scratches," he said briskly, springing to his feet and stretching out a hand to help me to mine.

Ten minutes later, my wrists were cleaned and lightly bandaged and I had ascertained that my head was merely bruised and my arm, though aching painfully, was not broken or sprained in any way. Murrell was taken away by Inspector Lestrade, and he would hang the next day. The poor wounded constable was taken to the hospital with a concussion but no other injuries, and Lestrade promised to see he was given the best of care.

And Sherlock Holmes and I found ourselves having to thank two small boys for our timely rescue from the man's intentions.

"I have to say, lads, that I am deeply grateful you were willing to follow Mr. Holmes's orders instead of going about your fun tonight," I thanked the lads, ruffling Alfie's ginger hair with my less painful hand – my word, the boy was nearly waist-high on me now.

"Pshaw, we still got time, Doctor – 'tain't even ten yet, an' th' bonfire is gonna be a real sight!" Bert exclaimed, hopping up and down in his excitement. "I'm gonna get me face painted, I am."

"Me an' some o' the boys 'as got us a dummy we're goin' ta burn in the bonfire, Mr. 'Olmes – yew should come wit' us!" Alfie added eagerly.

"Yoo can get a toffee apple," Bert interjected seriously, as if this were a weighty consideration in swaying us to join them.

Holmes laughed and clapped my good shoulder gently as I looked helplessly at him. "I'm afraid you must leave us two old men to our pipes and slippers by the fire tonight, boys," the detective said with a smile. "We have had our share of excitement for the evening, eh Watson?"

"Quite," I replied succinctly, also smiling at the sturdy street urchins who had served us so well many times in the past.

Holmes dug into his pocket and flipped a golden coin toward Alfie's saucer-like eyes. "There, now go buy yourselves as many toffee apples as you can eat in one night," he said with a grin, shooing the gasping boys out of the door amid a couple of high-pitched, squeaked thank-yous.

"Well, Watson," my friend said with a yawn, striding back to the fireplace for his pipe. "Will you be enthralling your readers with this tale in your little forays into embellished romantic fiction?"

"I doubt it – this is one adventure I should like very much to erase from my memory, holiday or no."

"Well at least we may both sleep soundly tonight, as will the whole of Scotland Yard," Holmes remarked, folding himself into his armchair and closing his eyes.

"You know, there was a sort of manic logic in that fellow's vendetta," I remarked after a moment.

"I am pleased to hear you see it, Doctor."

I ignored his sarcasm and went on. "He picked this day to enact his revenge because it was on Guy Fawkes' Night every year that he killed his five victims, of course – but do you suppose he was planning on that explosive under the chemical table to kill us both? Not exactly gunpowder, but still…dramatic irony."

"To kill _all three_ of us in a blaze of glory, more likely – what did he have to live for but the hangman?" Holmes shrugged. "Quite appropriate, would it not have been? 221B Baker Street becoming a blazing beacon to celebrate the holiday – the populace would most likely have been thrilled at the pyrotechnics."

"Mrs. Hudson would _not_, I fancy. She would be burning effigies of _us_ in those bonfires out there had that happened."

"Remember, remember, this fifth of November," Holmes remarked mischievously, puffing on his pipe, "Vendetta, mad murder, and plot. I see no reason why –"

"Holmes."

"Yes?"

"I believe you should leave the writing to me."


	9. Christmas

**Merry Christmas, everyone! Best wishes and hope your holidays are wonderful!**

* * *

_"I rather believe this sort of torture rivals that of the Inquisition," Mycroft Holmes could read his brother's lips from ten feet away as the detective hissed to the Doctor._

_The elder Holmes was about to reprimand his younger sibling for his impudence (and his infernal Bohemian abhorrence of any and all things social), but Watson beat him to it, sighing tolerantly and glancing sympathetically up at the elder as if to say _I do apologise; how the devil did you stand him for so many years?

_The most brilliant mind in London often wondered. _

_"You know if you were not such a cloistered hermit for the remainder of the year, one holiday party would not seem such a dreadful imposition," Watson rebuked in that gently dissective way that could make his friend squirm in a manner even the brother's icy glares could not replicate._

_Sherlock scowled as they continued skirting the celebratory dancers upon the ballroom floor and crossed the last few feet to reach their awaiting host._

_"You are three and one-half minutes late, Sherlock," Mycroft Holmes said sternly, addressing his brother for the fault and not Watson for he had no doubt the blame for the transgression was solely Sherlock's (though the loyal Doctor would never tell him one way or the other)._

_"Somehow I doubt that anyone missed us," the detective snorted, glaring petulantly at his sibling and tugging angrily on his stiff tie._

_"Do stop fidgeting, you've been jumpy as a cat ever since your arrival this afternoon. I trust your rooms were satisfactory, Doctor?"_

_Watson, who was standing at casual ease in the fashion of a true military man, glanced tolerantly at the older man's edgy brother before looking back to respond to his question._

_"Quite, thank you, Mr. Holmes." _

_"You need not be so formal despite the setting, Doctor. Sherlock, stop that!"_

_Younger brother was quite rudely staring at a rather...imposing would be a polite term...lady who had waddled past the trio, arrayed in purple velvet and a matching boa that trailed a few inches on the ground._

_"That is the first woman I have seen here who would make a properly proportioned dance partner for you, brother mine," he gasped, holding back helpless laughter._

_"_Holmes!_" The Doctor drove a well-aimed elbow into the detective's thin ribcage without displaying the chastening to onlookers._

_Mycroft Holmes attempted to massage a migraine away from his temples. With his free hand he snatched a glass of punch from an immaculate passing waiter's tray, wishing to heaven it was spiked with something stronger than the bubbly liquid. After disposing of the glass, he only then retained the fortitude to turn back to his younger brother and the man foolish or brilliant enough to tolerate him for two decades without murdering him._

_"Honestly, Sherlock," the elder Holmes stated with a roll of watery grey eyes. "Twenty Christmases, and you still cannot think of a more unusual Christmas present for your closest – your _only_ – friend than cuff-links?"_

_The detective's eyes would have turned any normal onlooker to dust. Unfortunately, elder brother had been inured against that power from early adolescence; Mycroft Holmes barely noticed the glower and most certainly did not care about it._

_"How did you – " Watson began, quite puzzled._

_Mycroft turned to the physician and indicated the Doctor's spotless cuffs, gleaming with silver and a tiny sparkle of ruby. "Those are not the same cuff-links you wore upon your arrival two hours ago, Doctor, despite the fact that you arrived wearing that same formal dress. The only reason a man would change his cuff-links when already dressed and mingling about in such a gathering would be for a personal reason."_

_The man raised a challenging eyebrow. "I might have lost one."_

_"Then you would have brought along a replacement pair that would show signs of some wear, at least. These are obviously brand-new, for the brushed silver has not even been smudged or scratched once," the elder Holmes pointed out patiently._

_"But how did you know they were from your brother?"_

_"Besides the fact that Sherlock has no originality whatsoever in gifting? The cuff-links are engraved, Doctor, and a man does not usually purchase such personal and, if you will pardon the expression, frivolously expensive ones for himself – much less a man of your sensible means and mentality. As you have changed within the last two hours, it therefore follows that someone presented you with them within the last two hours. Simplicity itself."_

_The Doctor smiled, stealing a glance at his aloof detective, who stood boredly leaning against the wall with his thin lips pursed in irritation with the world in general._

_"And I see that you presented my brother with a tie-pin, eh?" the elder Holmes went on absently, scanning his younger sibling's uncomfortably stiff appearance with some amusement._

_Sherlock glared a hole in his brother's skull, but that did not prevent the ensuing explanation for the interested audience of Mycroft's surrogate younger brother._

_"Besides the fact that you always have been a walking fashion disaster, since the tie-pin completely does not match your own cuff-links or your dress suit in the slightest, Sherlock, it is apparent that you are wearing it out of regard for someone, not because of a sense of fashion," the elder brother drawled._

_"Bosh," the detective spat rudely, stalking off to find someone of lesser intelligence upon which to ploy his powers of deduction and intimidation._

_The Doctor chuckled knowingly. "He is usually a well-dressed individual; was he not always so?" he inquired curiously, eagerly seizing upon the rare opportunity to interview the less reticent Holmes brother._

_"Heavens, no, Doctor. When he was a child, my mother for the longest time insisted he simply had to be colour-blind, despite the art in the blood – it was that catastrophic an atrocity when he would try to match his clothes. It was only when I pointed out that he never had trouble determining colour in litmus tests or anything else he worked on that they decided it was a lack of taste rather than of optic receptors that instigated the havoc in his wardrobe."_

_Watson laughed heartily, watching the lanky form of the detective sidestep an amorously dancing couple with a scowl of disgust and barely avoid spilling punch down the oblivious lady's dress._

_Ten seconds later, Holmes brusquely shoved a glass into his friend's hand and dared him with his steeled eyes to even consider toasting the compliments of the season. Unwilling to cause an explosion in the public view, Watson intelligently opted for a simple "Thank you, Holmes" instead._

_Mycroft Holmes noted with detached amusement that the notion of getting his elder brother a glass had never even been fed into the furious machine that was Sherlock's rapid mind._

_"I still have no idea how you managed to persuade him into this," Watson ventured over the rim of his glass, indicating the festively decorated ball-room, its lavish house, and the sulking consultant beside him in one smooth gesture._

_"Fraternal blackmailing is as much an art as painting or anything else, Doctor," the elder Holmes replied cheerfully. "One merely has to know one's subject and all the rest becomes rather elementary. Besides, Her Grace would have it no other way, and you know how uncomfortable refusing the wife of a Minister can make it for me in Whitehall, Sherlock."_

_"Your social problems with the Cabinet are of absolutely no concern to me, Mycroft," Sherlock snapped peevishly, tugging on his tie for the tenth time in three minutes._

_Watson sighed and sent him a warning look over the rim of his glass, and the detective scowled but subsided from further barbs at his brother._

The elder of the two Holmes brothers sighed and removed his reading glasses (for he was not truly reading at the moment but seeing a different scene some ten years before), his lips curving in a tiny sardonic smile that made his secretary wonder if his employer's mind were really on the papers in front of him.

Seeing the young fellow's quizzical expression, Mycroft Holmes reeled his memory back from the dangerous precipice of nostalgia, erased the smile, and overcompensated with a formidable scowl and snarl that did not disappear until the clock struck the hour for his next appointment, the last on this Christmas Eve 1913.

Unfortunately for the government and its employees, the unrest in Europe and other parts of the Empire did not take a holiday like the remainder of the population; and though the most-brilliant-mind-in-England's Christmas would be spent at his home in Pall Mall, he did not relish the amount of work that still needed to be perused in the next twenty-four hours. Not his holiday reading material of choice: but duty was duty, and England expected every man would do his.

Still, this last appointment was only indirectly business-related, and something he had rather looked forward to as his sole gesture of charity in a season that had long since lost its golden glow of cheer for anyone troubled with the impending European storm. The world was choosing sides as quickly and foolishly as the revelers at holiday parties were even now choosing dance partners. Loyalty no longer had one set meaning, treason no longer held clear boundaries, and both were becoming dangerously close to blurring the line between them completely.

Mycroft Holmes had no time for frivolities or anything else this season but to prevent His Majesty's Empire from crumbling before it was prepared to do so with stately grace.

The secretary bobbed into the room, announcing the arrival of his final appointment, and the large man slowly levered himself out of his chair. He wondered absently how much longer he would be able to do this without needing a bath-chair at the end of the day to get from his office to his home around the corner ; not long, if the creaking in his joints were any indication.

"Show him in, Wilkins." The secretary nodded and disappeared into the outer office once more, reappearing a moment later to open the door for the final visitor.

The Doctor had not changed much since the last Mycroft had seen him some seven or eight years before, shortly after his brother's retirement to the Sussex Downs. It had been some rare occasion when Sherlock had returned for a visit to London and the duo had stopped by unannounced at his rooms in Pall Mall to annoy him to suicide before continuing on their way to the theatre.

Since then, Mycroft had occasionally sent Watson a message or two, a few telephone calls for his brother's sake, but had not seen him until this moment. Greying hair had become quite a bit more visible at his temples, he leaned a bit more heavily on his now ever-present walking-stick than in past years, and lines of worry - both old and new - had been etched permanent in his work-hardened face; but the intelligently mischievous glint of his eye and that slow, intense smile that had so fascinated Mycroft's younger brother from the first day they met over thirty years previously were still his most striking features.

The first thing to meet the elder Holmes's perception, however, was the look of barely-concealed panicking fear hidden behind the mask of a soldier, and Mycroft made haste to allay the sudden terror that had obviously overtaken the man at the message he had sent…in retrospect, perhaps it was not worded the best way for the situation.

"Come in, please, Dr. Watson," Mycroft said cordially, reaching out a large hand to his brother's closest friend.

"Thank you." The man performed the necessary courtesy of speech and handshake, gentleman as always, before bursting into the question he had been fearing the answer to ever since he had received the message two hours ago. "Mr. Holmes, you said you've news from your brother…is he all right? Has something happened? Is -"

"Please, Doctor, do not distress yourself," the elderly man hastened to reassure with the inner calm that characteristically radiated from both brothers in times of tension. "Sherlock is both alive and well, I assure you."

The light of fear in the Doctor's eyes on the instant flickered and dwindled down into a hidden coal that, while it never would go out until the younger Holmes were safely back in England, could lie dormant without causing undue distress, and he breathed a slightly unsteady sigh of sheer relief.

"Thank heaven…when I got that message I thought…"

"Yes, I must apologise, Doctor," Mycroft mused, heaving himself back into his chair. "I had not thought about the possibility of your drawing the wrong conclusion from it. I say, Wilkins, what are you gawping about for? Do you not have a family to get home to?" This last to the young secretary, who was fidgeting nervously near the door, hopping back and forth from one foot to the other.

"Yes, sir – I mean, well, I was just making sure you've nothing more for me, sir?" the fellow stammered, swallowing hard.

"I have no intention of forcing you to work on Christmas Eve or Day, Wilkins, despite the fact that I am well aware of you lads calling me 'Mycroft Marley' behind my back occasionally," the elderly man rumbled, his grey eyes glinting wickedly in the bright electric light.

"Erm…I assure you, sir, I –"

"Stow the chatter, Wilkins, and leave us. Unless you'd like a pile of Admiralty reports to do over tomorrow?"

"No, sir!"

"Off with you, then. Don't bother to lock up, I'll be here for a bit yet."

"Yes, sir. Don't work too late, sir; it isn't good for your health, sir," the young man ventured with a bravery that the Doctor instantly respected.

Mycroft Holmes looked over his spectacles at the secretary. "While I may be approaching my threescore and tenth year, young man, I am _not_ a dotard with one foot in the grave. Well able to take care of myself, thank you very much."

"Y-yes, sir. A Happy Christmas, sir?" It was more a question than a holiday wish, for young Wilkins was not at all sure his employer knew _how_ to have one.

"Yes, yes. Out, Wilkins. Give my regards to the family and all that. Well, what are you standing around for?"

The door hastily shut behind the flustered young man, and the Doctor laughed softly, taking the perfunctory seat the other offered.

"He's a decent, upstanding enough young chap, and a hard worker," the elder Holmes stated calmly, shoving a file of reports into his case to take home. "More than I can say for the last three who worked in this department; all of which conveniently got themselves transferred away from me within a month of their being here."

Watson nodded in amusement; though his mind was slightly ill-at-ease in the surroundings of what looked to be the hub of the troubled Empire he gave no outward sign of agitation except an occasional sharp glance around the stately office.

"You are no doubt wondering why you are here, Doctor."

"Well, other than to get news of your brother, yes," the man agreed slowly. "That is why I was afraid that…well, because usually you just send a wire. It must be rather important, to call me in –"

He paused out of courtesy as the office telephones shrilled. The elderly Holmes did not even look up from the mountain of papers he was sorting.

"Do a chap a favour, Doctor, and get that, will you? There, on Wilkins's desk."

"I?" the Doctor gasped, slightly aghast at the prospect of answering the telephone in the office of the most important man of the realm – heaven only knew who could be on the other end of the wire!

"It can't be anyone important, Doctor, because I should by all accounts have been out of the office by this time. Most likely Wilkins calling from downstairs saying he forgot his muffler, or something equally inane," the elder man growled, shoving a thick portfolio into a drawer for further filing on Boxing Day – yes, he _was_ going to work on Boxing Day.

The Doctor looked rather unconvinced of the propriety of the thing, but as the telephone shrilled again and Mycroft waved him off with an enormous flipper-like hand, he moved with reluctance to the secretary's desk and hesitantly lifted the telephone receiver.

"Hallo?" he asked tentatively, not knowing whether to say 'Mr. Holmes's office' or 'Mycroft Holmes's office' or something else entirely, and deciding on the standard greeting to loosely fit all the above categories.

The elder Holmes sat back with an air of immense self-satisfaction, merely watching silently as a strange expression crossed the Doctor's face. The physician's brows knitted slightly, and a faint light of ridiculous hope flared up visibly in his warm eyes before being shaken back into reality by the all-too-cold present.

"Yes, he is in – may I tell him who is calling, please?"

Mycroft's enormous frame began to quiver with the closest thing to laughter any Holmes ever got, as the Doctor's eyes grew wide and he audibly drew a sharp intake of breath, fumbling with his free hand for the back of the desk chair.

"Holmes? Is that really you?" Watson gasped breathlessly, and his eyes lit up with a glow that caused the elderly man across the room to smile complacently and continue rummaging through his paperwork with one eye on the telephone and its holder, who was currently stammering about to find a coherent sentence.

"Yes, really! No, I've no idea – you didn't know? – your brother – yes, he summoned me – m-my dear fellow!"

It took no great Holmesian powers of observation to see from the enormous grin that swept across and transformed the Doctor's face that it was indeed Mycroft Holmes's younger brother, calling precisely on schedule as had been arranged for the last six weeks, though Sherlock had merely been told he was going to be calling on a secure line to inform his brother of his recent developments.

After a fit of borderline-hysterical laughter that rang so loudly in the room that the outer clerk poked his head in to see if Mr. Mycroft Holmes had suddenly gone stark raving mad, Watson collapsed into the desk chair behind him, blinking suspiciously and listening with an attention so rapt that it completely blocked out all other sounds and sights.

Mycroft Holmes grinned outright for the first time all day and sat back to watch his achievement with the self-satisfied air that would be the only thing coming close to a Christmas spirit he would ever (want to) show to the world.

After a moment of obvious personal pleasantry, the Doctor chuckled softly and, dashing a hand hastily over his eyes, began firing questions at such a rapid rate that the elderly Holmes stared, completely unable to perceive how Sherlock could possibly be answering them in the amount of time before the next one was asked – much less how he could be asking questions of his own as he obviously was from the Doctor's rapid-fire responses. Mycroft suspected both of them probably were more babbling than listening to each other at the moment, due to the shock factor of hearing each other's voices after not being able to for a year and a half.

Watson laughed until he slumped back, exhausted, and merely listened with his eyes fixed on some point far away and one arm behind his head, the smile that had been upon his face since the start of the telephone call never fading as the minutes ticked onward. Mycroft took a third glance at his pocket-watch and stifled a yawn, then slowly maneuvered himself out of his chair and walked over to the oblivious Doctor.

"You did what, now? You can't be serious! A goatee?" Watson exclaimed, aghast, as the elderly man reached the desk. "Holmes, that's perfectly – oh," he broke off with a guilty gulp and a childish grin at the man towering over him. "No, no, it's your brother, he's standing over me," he said into the telephone. Mycroft raised an eyebrow when the Doctor stifled a snicker. "No, I am _not_ going to tell him that, Holmes. Hold on a moment."

"May I cut in for a few minutes on official business, Doctor? I should like to go home sometime before New Year's," the elderly man interrupted dryly, though his eyes were twinkling in atypical good humour.

"Oh…" Watson's face fell in obvious disappointment, realising the conversation would have to end. "Yes, yes of course, Mr. Holmes."

"Doctor, how many times in the last twenty years have I asked you to please call me Mycroft?" the man sighed. "And do not look so disconsolate, I shall return the telephone to you as soon as I talk to the young fool."

Watson's face reanimated in unmitigated glee, and he turned back to the receiver, from whence were issuing highly familiar and indignant squawking noises. "Yes, yes, I'm here, Holmes. Your brother wishes to speak to you for a few minutes. Yes, he's going to give it back when he's through talking to you. Holmes, for heaven's sake, he _is_ your brother!"

Mycroft stifled a laugh and took the telephone from the Doctor, who courteously vacated the chair so that the older man could be seated.

"Sherlock?"

"Mycroft, what in heaven's name! Have I ever told you what a positive genius you are?"

The elderly man winced at the loudness of his younger sibling's joyous vehemence (and the horrible deterioration of his well-bred British speech), but he could detect no malice or sarcasm (for once) in the tone. "You needn't shout, Sherlock – age has not deteriorated my faculties all that much."

"No ear-trumpets yet, then?" younger brother asked impertinently.

"I'll see you in your grave first," Mycroft rumbled good-naturedly. "I do hope you've not been emptying your mind of all pertinent information into this telephone, secure line or no secure line."

"Certainly not," Sherlock retorted indignantly. "I am not so stupid as all that, Mycroft, as you should know by now by virtue of the fact that I am still _alive_ in this infernal game of yours."

The veracity of the sarcastic statement caused the elderly man's eyes to soften. "You are continuing to be careful, brother? Do not allow your success so far to delude you into thinking you are invincible. Heaven knows you've made that mistake too often in your lifetime." His watery grey gaze fell upon the Doctor, who was standing at a respectful distance away for the brothers' privacy.

"I am being perfectly careful, Mycroft. And though Hargreave assures me these Pinkerton people can still be trusted, I am not dumb enough to send any sort of information through the 'phone lines. Good grief, one would think I was a novice at this from the way you fuss."

Elder brother winced again at the sloppiness of his sibling's speech. "Good. Send your report through the usual channels then; this call was not to get any information from you, as you may have deduced by now if you retain half your powers after being in those horrible colonies for so long."

"They aren't colonies any longer, brother," Holmes drawled. "They're a thriving nation, and one we may well be glad to have on our side when the blow falls."

"True enough. I must say, your accent is simply atrocious," elder brother replied in disgust.

"Yeah, it is, isn't it?" the younger sibling exaggerated his American tones and accent so badly that Mycroft cringed visibly, feeling his skin crawl in disgust.

His sigh of fond exasperation was heard on the other end, for Sherlock immediately reverted to his normal inflections. "In all seriousness, brother mine…thank you," his voice came wistfully through the line in a tone very rarely heard between the two stolidly saturnine siblings. "Watson and I…we haven't talked since I left, you know."

"I know," Mycroft replied quietly. "And we both know why and the necessity of the measures taken."

"Yes, yes…Oh, Mycroft – I do wish this infernal stint were over…I want to come home." The elderly man was shocked to hear his younger brother voice the sentiment with such an intensity it was unnerving, sounding for all the world like the lonely boarding-school child he still remembered. This would never do. One of them at least had to stay focused.

"You cannot. You know that."

"Yes, I know it," came the reply, accompanied by a long and weary sigh. "Not until the mission is completed."

"Precisely. England's youth are gearing up to do their parts, Sherlock, and we must do ours until they are ready."

"This is going to be ugly, very ugly, Mycroft," his brother said softly. "What…what _are_ we going to do?"

"We are going to do our duties, Sherlock," his older brother said sternly, though with the fraternal comfort that only talking to an older sibling can give unto a younger. "And then we will fight, and only God knows the outcome."

"War is a horrible thing," the elderly man heard the faint whisper trickle through the receiver and he sighed, glancing at the Afghan veteran who was still waiting patiently, gazing out of the window at the snow-filled streets.

"Yes, it is. But none of us can stop the inevitable, Sherlock," he said firmly. "Until then, we will do our duties, to a man. But for tonight, brother," Mycroft went on, his tone softening the blow of his previous words' finality, "for tonight enjoy this time you will have for the next hour or two. I have given orders to the guards outside that the Doctor is not to be disturbed and that he may stay as long as he likes in this office. Use your time wisely, brother, for we both know you probably will not get another chance like this."

"Mycroft…I thank you," his brother's voice was slightly unsteady but unmistakably serious. "Thank you very much…I can't tell you how much it meant when I heard his voice; when he picked up that telephone I was –"

"Really, Sherlock," Mycroft growled in distaste. "Living in those infernal States has made you quite dreadfully open in these displays of emotion. While the Doctor may enjoy talking to a normal man instead of a block of granite, I for one find the transmutation quite unsettling."

Sherlock gave a dry barking laugh, and the tension and care of the moment faded away. "Then put him back on, brother mine, and we shall eliminate the problem," he chuckled.

"Be careful, Sherlock. Report every chance you have, but do not endanger yourself. I need not remind you that time is running out and we cannot afford to have you fail at this juncture," Mycroft said quietly, but with a deadly earnest.

"I will do my duty, brother, as you are doing yours." The statement was as good as a sacred oath, coming from him. Mycroft was quite satisfied with it.

"Take care, Sherlock," the elderly man sighed.

"I shall. And Mycroft?" he asked hastily as the man was about to hand the phone back to the eager Doctor.

"Yes?"

"Thank you again," came the quiet reply. "And Happy Christmas, brother."

Mycroft Holmes smiled and handed the receiver back to Watson, who instantly sat and withdrew into a world, the _only_ world, where time was permitted to stop and linger on an age of triumph and invention and gaslight and romance. For the moment, for this evening, only those two existed despite the distance of two continents, and all was right for a few hours.

How it could be with the world in such chaotic disarray at the moment, the eldest brother reflected pensively, solely in itself proved the existence of the magic of Christmas.


	10. New Year's

_This is specially for my chum **Protector of the Gray Fortress**, who has been down with some sort of bug for the last few days. As I've been sick over holidays before and it is completely not cool, I've written this with only her eyes and her wants or tastes in mind (hence the dog, as I personally hate the little blighters) and that's why it's a bit out of the ordinary. _

_But the rest of you are more than welcome to come along for the ride if you want. _:)

_A very Happy New Year to everyone!_

* * *

As I look back upon the many years I spent in the company of the world's foremost consulting detective, very few holidays stand out in my mind. This is by simple virtue of the fact that, for the most part, either they were spent at home with an irritable Sherlock Holmes, or else they were spent in varying stages of discomfort while upon a case – tramping about the moors, draughty castles, filthy dens of iniquity in London, usually lying in wait for a murderer or cracksman or forger to step blithely into our trap while all the world celebrated around us in champagne and fireside chatter.

Holidays were nothing more than an annoyance, a bump in the road of crime, to Sherlock Holmes, at least in those early days of our association. Though he did mellow the longer I prodded him to have some sort of holiday spirit, he never quite lost that aversion to anything that could possibly make the world so relentlessly cheerful for a few nights of the year; it was a matter of distrust, not of distaste.

I do, however, remember one New Year's eve in the early 1880s, only a year or two after I had met the man that was to change the course of my life forever, though neither of us knew that then of course.

I remember it not just for the sadistic criminal who occupied our attention from the second week of December, nor for the dramatic and quite dangerous conclusion that ended as I shall mention below – but for the aftermath of said conclusion, and the night when for the first time Sherlock Holmes seemed to lower his inner defenses enough to give me a glimpse of the intense, vibrant man behind the cool façade he so cherished. This change in my friend's demeanour was partially brought about by the manner of the conclusion, partially by the holiday spirit permeating our current place of residence (a magnificent stone castle in the North of England), and partially by a few outside forces, which I shall come to in their due times.

I shall not here reveal the entirety of the case's details, both for the sake of not prolonging this narrative with extraneous, though interesting, information, and also to protect the names of the noble family involved in the crime. A brief overview of the pertinent facts, however, would not come amiss so that the reader may fully understand what followed the conclusion of the case.

The castle of which I speak had for decades been inhabited by a family of noble blood but deadly heritage. Legends featuring the place abounded and dated back to the medieval period, and these tales were treasured by the place's occupants as carefully as the castle's wealth itself was. As can be imagined, any even remotely suspicious accidents in past and present days were always chalked up to the legends of spirits and ghosts that typically shroud such a place of mystery.

Sherlock Holmes, of course, discounted every and all such legends, though I myself discovered that I was rather enchanted and allured by the vivid and colourful past of the place. I found great pleasure during our over-long stay in reading the old legends from a dusty tome in the castle's immense library.

We had been engaged by the current resident, whose name and title shall remain nameless for security's sake here, to investigate the death of his uncle (of whom he had inherited the place as the next living relative, the former nobleman having no children of his own) and of two of the staff, all of which had been very grotesquely killed in 'accidents' around the establishment.

The nephew was a young man, about Holmes's age (seven or eight-and-twenty, I should say), and had lived in Australia for all of his life until hearing of his come into the family fortune. An amiable, bluff young fellow, he freely admitted to being culturally unsuited for the position he now found himself and was working desperately to pour himself into the mould expected of the Lord of the establishment.

His wife, a lovely, petite young thing about two years his junior, was taking to her new position like a duck to water, though she too admitted to being rather overwhelmed by said position. However, her charm and grace throughout our stay left no room at all for criticism of the new Lord and his Lady.

This was not the reason for begging our assistance, however; rather, Holmes was engaged to uncover the secrets that were obviously hidden in the castle about the uncle's recent death as well as the staff's. The Lord himself disbelieved anything of the sort regarding legends and ghosts, but the household servants had been frightening his four-year-old son with tales of black knights and walking suits of armour, battle axes falling in the dead of night and so on, so much so that the child swore he had seen such things on more than one occasion.

Holmes, to my surprise, took young Master Robert's testimony quite seriously, and it was this last detail that made him accept an otherwise featureless case, according to him. And so it was, that on the sixteenth of December of that year, we found ourselves in the frozen North of England, investigating a case that very rapidly took a most deadly turn.

It is an old story and plot, perhaps one of the oldest in all storydom – an unknown heir to the estate, murder for the sake of fortune and title. The twist to this particular tale, was that the heir – a sister to the late uncle, together with her adolescent son – was completely insane though no one knew it at the time. Holmes called her one of the most chilling murderesses he had ever come across, and probably the most ruthless; and I for one would not disagree with him.

Nearly two weeks passed whilst we ran the woman and her son to ground, and the case culminated on New Year's Eve day, mid-afternoon. The family had been preparing for the traditional New Year's Eve party, to which half the countryside had been invited, and as such no one had noticed the disappearance of four-year-old young Robert from his nursery until after the fact.

It was after that that things began to spiral downhill in the case. Sherlock Holmes and I were forced to split forces, I going after the child and its abductor, the woman's son, in the towers of the castle, whilst Holmes went after the young man's mother in hopes of averting tragedy before the entire family fell victim to the legend the woman had revived.

This was the first time my friend had entrusted a portion of any case's solution to me without aid, and I was determined to not allow his faith in me to be misplaced.

And it was not. Though I really can claim no great credit for being able to track down and subdue a youngster of sixteen or so, who really was only following his mother's orders and had no real desire to do young Master Robert any true harm. Be that as it may, I saw the sobbing little one safely back to her Ladyship, ordered the family to remain in the decorated ball-room and guard the subdued young man until his mother was found, and then set off after Sherlock Holmes.

So as to not prolong an already too-lengthy narrative, I shall not detail every aspect of that final chase. Suffice it to say that by some twisted stroke of luck, I happened upon the woman herself at the head of a long flight of stone steps before Holmes had worked his way out of the secret passages she had shut him in minutes before.

As a physician, and a war veteran, I most certainly am able to recognise madness when I see it, and I saw it then; she was utterly beyond help, and I began to wonder if I could bring myself to shoot a woman if she attempted to kill me or my friend with the thick staff of a broken battle-axe she wielded. As it was, I did not have either opportunity nor time to think further on the matter; for just as Holmes came around the corner at the bottom of the steps, I felt a blinding shock of pain shoot through my already unbalanced legs (due to the strain on my old wound tonight) and then something struck my back with enough force to send my feet sliding off the top stone step.

My heart lurched in a sudden rush of panicking fear, and I scrabbled desperately for the railing only to have my hands scrape bare stone. It was too late for anything to stop my descent; I was going to fall and most likely break my neck. Thankfully, that was not the case, though it so easily could have been.

Sherlock Holmes had seen the entire fiasco and darted up the steps in an attempt to break or stop my fall – I felt a jerk on my jacket as he grabbed the balustrade with one hand and me with the other as I jolted past him. Unfortunately, I outweigh the man by a stone or two and he was unable to keep his grip on either me or the railing. We both went sliding with a united crash to the stone floor below.

Our client had followed me against my orders, for which we were grateful as he was more than happy to apprehend the woman who had his son abducted and was attempting to methodically kill off each member of the family; but this I did not learn until later.

Holmes got off with no worse than a bad bump to the head that made him unconscious for fifteen minutes and irritable for two hours, plus an assortment of bruises that made the Lady of the house shriek when she saw him (which of course helped his headache immensely).

I, however, had not been quite so fortunate. Though had my friend not partially broken my fall into more of a slide than a plummet, the injuries would no doubt have been ten times worse than they actually were.

And so it was, that while the castle was resounding with celebratory dancers and musicians and laughter rang through the corridors on that New Year's Eve, I was forced to remain in my bedchamber nursing a badly sprained ankle, and unable to move without intense pain due to a cracked rib and a consistent throbbing ache in more places than I could count, including my head and weak shoulder.

Holmes had hovered nervously nearby for an hour until he had grown so positively twitchy that I banished him from my bedroom, telling him to go and at least make an appearance at his client's party despite the fact that he loathed such gatherings. Apparently he had found something with which to occupy himself, for it had now been close upon two hours and he had not yet returned. I will admit I was slightly irritated by the fact.

I then became annoyed and somewhat ashamed with myself for being so petty. The case was concluded successfully, thank heaven, and I should be grateful we were both still alive. I closed my eyes, trying to ignore the burning pain in my shoulder and ribcage every time I drew a breath, and attempted to calm my nerves enough to get some sleep.

I am unaware if I dozed off for a moment or if I was simply not aware of my surroundings, for I jumped with a start when my bedroom door slammed against the wall. I gasped as a pang flashed through my chest and clenched my eyes shut for another moment, before opening them to see a chagrined little four-year-old standing by the door, scowling crossly at the offending structure.

"'M sorry," the lad said with a note of plaintive apology in his little voice. "Didn' mean to bang the door! I just knocked, tha's all!"

I smiled instinctively at the sight of the little one in his small night-shirt, with his golden curls falling over his eyes, a dingy stuffed bear tucked into the crook of his elbow, and something held carefully in his arms that I could not see in the dim light from my poor position. I attempted to sit up a bit but was forced to fall back to the pillows with a hiss of pain, endeavouring to not make a noise in front of the child. I did manage to get to one elbow to better see the boy.

"What is it, young fellow? Didn't your mother tell you to go to bed?"

Master Robert nodded complacently. "Mama's dancing wif Mr. Betts," he informed me. "She won' know."

I repressed a chuckle at the child's logic, and thus encouraged the boy continued, blowing a blonde curl out of his eyes with an impatient _pfffh_. "Mama said you fell down th' stairs, Doctor," he piped, more a question than a fact.

"Yes, I am afraid I did," I agreed cautiously. I had no desire to alarm the lad over what had happened in his house tonight; the poor child had been frightened enough by the criminals now celebrating their new year in the depths of a country police station.

"When I fell dow'stairs las' month, Mama let me have Mr. Bubbles in bed wif me," Robert informed me soberly.

I was suddenly glad I had not taken morphine or another pain reliever, as it took a bit of thinking which I would not have been able to do were that the case, to deduce that 'Mr. Bubbles' was more likely to be a child's plaything than an actual person. I was suddenly put in remembrance of a carnival clown by that same name that had frightened me nigh witless as a small boy in Scotland, on a holiday one summer.

I repressed a shudder and absently rubbed at my aching head with my right hand, trying to cogitate a kind way of telling the boy to go back to bed and leave me alone. "Who?"

"He helpted me get better right quick," the child chirped eagerly.

"Did he now?" I murmured. The room was so terribly cold, I could barely stop shivering; I wanted nothing more than to curl up under the blankets, which of course was impossible to do with my injuries.

"Mmhm." I was suddenly aware that two small blue eyes were peeping at me over the foot of my bed – how the devil had he got across the room?

"Erm…" I bit my lip to prevent a moan as I forgot and moved my injured ankle, sending a white flash of pain all the way to my knee. "Master Robert –"

"So I bringed him t' you, Doct'r," the child said, beaming at me and carefully setting a smallish pasteboard box, with its lid half-off, on the foot of my bed. I fumbled for something to say, not even knowing who or what the blazes 'Mr. Bubbles' was, but the boy continued blithely, "becoz you saved me t'night from that nasty boy. You needta get better soon, Doctor."

Privately, I heartily agreed with that last statement, and despite the pain I had no trouble in bringing a smile to my lips as I looked at the lad standing earnestly in front of me.

"Thank you, Robert," I said softly. "I am sure I shall be right as rain in a few days."

The little one's mouth pursed in a four-year-old pout. "I _hate_ bein' called Robert, Mama only calls me tha' when I'm in trouble," he grumbled, folding his little arms and squeezing his stuffed bear enough to make the button eyes bulge.

I laughed and promptly regretted the motion as my entire body protested with several varying screams of agony. "My – my apologies, laddie. And speaking of trouble…supposing your mother comes up here just now?"

The child gave a dismayed squeak and glanced warily at the door with an air of one who has sneaked behind his parents' backs one too many times and does not want to be caught again. "I better scoot," the lad muttered grumpily.

"Yes, you'd better," I chuckled, lightly this time so as to not jar my battered frame.

"Take care o' Mr. Bubbles, Doctor," the boy admonished me sternly, pointing a small finger at my head and narrowing those little eyes into two blue pin-points.

I nodded solemnly. The box had not moved; I imagined the lad's prized possession was a stuffed animal similar to the bear he was holding.

The young master sneaked to the door and melted into the shadows beside it for an instant, before he flashed me a miniature grin and zipped off down the hall to his own bedchamber. I smiled and allowed my head to fall back to the pillow and pulled the covers up as tightly as I could, for I was absolutely freezing.

The gesture of the lad had served the dual purpose of both distracting me from my pain and warming my heart, and for a few minutes I did relax, trying to let my mind sink into oblivion without the aid of any artificial pain relievers. But the temperature was falling fast, and the fire flickering out slowly, and with both combined I was in a very short time shaking with cold even under the thick, soft blankets, and my head was somewhat muddled from the pain evident in every small movement I made.

I dozed fitfully for the better part of a half-hour before I finally dropped into a very unrestful sleep, one that was plagued with disturbing visions and sensations of pain and cold and stone steps and the type of person that would wish to harm an innocent child, all swirling about my bedside to choke and threaten and smother me into oblivion.

I awoke suddenly with a soft cry when what felt like an icy hand brushed my face, and I struggled to free myself from whatever was confining me.

"Watson, don't move –"

The hasty warning came too late, as I had already shot upright in bed, gasping in shock of awareness and then in agony as pain enveloped and blinded my senses for a moment. I choked sharply, clutching at my side, and felt something or someone slipping a strong but careful arm behind my back and slowly pressing my uninjured shoulder back down to the bed.

"It's all right, old man. Easy now," a voice soothed calmly from hovering somewhere over my head.

The pain still throbbed, pulsating dully from my side, my shoulder, my arm…not to mention my head. And it was _freezing_ in this room. I shivered and gave a quiet moan, my hands blindly groping of their own accord for the nearest coverlet. My vision and hearing felt muffled and as if coming from a great thick distance, almost as if I were in a cloud-bank. I attempted to draw a deeper breath and suddenly began to cough harshly, feeling a familiar pain in my chest that caused me to gasp and try to shift my position to a less painful one.

I heard an exclamation of dismay and the hand left my shoulder. I fumbled for the twisted blankets, but before I could find them they magically appeared around and over me, blocking out the worst of the chill. I gave a small sigh of relief and lay still, concentrating on breathing very, very carefully, if a bit shallowly.

My vision began to cease its sickening revolution, the mists slowly swirling away into a dull throbbing pulse, and I shivered once more and blinked slowly, trying to focus on the blurred room. The fire had miraculously blazed up brightly again, casting flickering golden glows and darkling shadows across the rich wooden floors and intricate tapestries. I coughed weakly and blinked, and a moment later my gaze filled with the familiar sharp features of my new friend, Sherlock Holmes.

His thin face was pinched with something closer to anxiety than I had seen in quite a while, and he sat gently on the edge of my bed to inquire most solicitously about how I was feeling.

"You were restless, dreaming," he informed me quietly. "And when I was checking the bandages I am afraid I woke you – my apologies."

"No, it's fine," I whispered hoarsely, trying to prevent my teeth from chattering.

"This room was like an icebox when I returned," he continued with an air of deep self-deprecation, fidgeting with his shirt-cuffs and cuff-links. "I am dreadfully sorry; I'd no idea it would take such an exorbitant length of time to extricate myself from that crowd without a breach of etiquette."

I smiled at the mental image his discomfiture conjured up, and the hard lines around his mouth and eyes softened slightly. "I've brought up some tea that the Lady's maid was kind enough to make despite the more urgent call for champagne," said he, gesturing to the bedside table where gleamed a neat silver tray. "Would you care for some?"

I breathed a sigh of deep gratitude, for I was chilled through to my very marrow and could do with both the warmth and the comfort of the familiar brew.

"Let me see, how to do this in the least painful manner…" Holmes muttered to himself with a frown, pensively rubbing the side of his head where he had hit the stone wall of the stairs earlier.

I ended the uncomfortable discussion by struggling to one elbow and from there having him gingerly ease me back into a more elevated position. Even just that small movement was agony on my tortured body, however, and I remained with my eyes closed and my jaw clenched for a moment or two when once I had settled.

"All right, old fellow?"

I nodded wordlessly, finally forcing my eyes open to meet his concerned gaze. "Thank you," I murmured, feeling my cheeks flame in some embarrassment at being so utterly helpless.

The detective merely nodded awkwardly and busied himself with fixing a cup of tea as I liked it. "I see that young Robert was in here to see you at some point in my absence," he ventured over his shoulder.

"Yes," I agreed mechanically, not caring enough about the deducing lesson to inquire about how he discovered that fact. My friend carefully handed me a half-filled cup of tea and then tucked the edge of the blanket in gently around my chest. "Thank you. By the by, have you any idea who 'Mr. Bubbles' is?"

He snorted a laugh into his teacup, his eyes sparkling in amusement at me over the china rim. "None in the least. Am I to understand that he is an acquaintance of yours?"

"No, no." I smiled back at him, sipping the milky brew and feeling heat spread through me in a warming wave. "The lad said he was in that box there at the end of the bed, that his mother let him sleep with it when he fell down the stairs and it made him feel better. I can only assume it to be a toy or stuffed animal of some kind."

Holmes chuckled and, setting his cup down, moved to the foot of the bed and peeked curiously into the box. I saw his grey eyes widen and glint in the flickering firelight, and he glanced back at me with an impish grin.

"What?"

"It is neither, my dear Doctor. Have a look at your precious Mr. Bubbles," said he with a widening smile, plucking the box from the foot of the bed and setting it on my lap. I raised an eyebrow and handed him my teacup with one hand, removing the box's lid with the other.

"Wurrf!" I was greeted with an enthusiastic rumble from the sole occupant of the box, which had been carefully lined with a soft, faded blue baby blanket and completed with the addition of a bedraggled chew toy in the shape of what looked somewhat like a perverted cat.

"Oh, good heavens…"

The detective quivered with laughter in his peculiar noiseless fashion before draping himself around the wooden chair beside my bed and looking at the tiny bulldog puppy with the greatest of amusements.

I found myself smiling as the little beggar sleepily rolled out of the box when I turned it on its side. It blinked placidly up at me before yawning with a snap of small jaws, and then sniffing curiously at my hand.

"I sincerely hope that Mr. Bubbles owes his unique nomenclature to the young master, and _not_ to my client," Holmes interjected dryly. "If not, then I fear for both our sanities while being trapped here with the Lord over a snowstorm."

"Isn't he adorable?" I chuckled, forgetting about the pain in my shoulder and side for a moment as the little dog worried at his beloved chew toy, wriggling about on my lap like a live hot water bottle.

"That is not the first adjective that came to mind, no."

"I had a pup like this when I was a boy," I remembered with a fond smile, stroking the little dog as it growled good-naturedly at its plaything.

"Please tell me you did not name it something quite so dreadful."

I laughed and shook my head in denial as I tossed the empty box down to the floor. "Ohh…that was not a good idea," I muttered with a small gasp as pain shot up my arm into my shoulder.

Holmes's brows knitted worriedly. "I believe Mr. Bubbles needs to return to his master, and you are in need of some sleep, Doctor," said he sternly.

"I don't want to sleep," I protested, tapping one of the puppy's paws with a playful finger and dodging when he swiped at it.

"Watson," my friend's voice softened, though I doubted that he realised the fact. "You must have some of the laudanum that village doctor left – or something at least – and you must rest yourself. That was a very bad fall you took, my dear fellow."

I sighed and leaned back into the cool softness of the pillow, idly watching the little dog drag a corner of the blanket across my stomach, all the while shaking his head vigorously and growling at the soft wool. I ran a hand over Mr. Bubbles's head and received a wet snuffle in return that made me smile and look up at Holmes, who was still sitting backwards in his chair, his gangly arms folded over the back of it, with the sternest of glares that would have been more appropriate for a physician to wear than a detective.

"Didn't you ever have a dog as a boy, Holmes?" I asked absently.

"No. I never really cared overmuch for the things after being bitten by a neighbour's terrier at the age of seven."

"How did you get bitten by a dog that small, and usually so amiable?" I asked in surprise, looking over at him.

"I was endeavouring to ascertain the tooth and jaw width of different breeds of canines for the purpose of identifying dogs by the spread of bite marks," he replied shortly, and looking a bit disgruntled at the recollection. "The little devil missed the stick I wanted it to bite and nipped my hand instead."

I tried valiantly for his sake to repress a snigger but at last found it utterly impossible. The corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement as I held my side, grimacing at the pain but still chuckling.

"I did have a cat, though, at least for a year or two," he muttered distractedly, watching the little bull-pup snuggle down beside me under one of the many blankets.

I stared at the man in abject skepticism. "You do not strike me as the type of person to keep a _cat_, Holmes."

"Oh? And what type of pet _would_ you think I should have as a child?" he asked pertly, sitting up a little straighter in that peculiar manner that told me he was about to commence teasing me mercilessly if I dug myself into a metaphorical hole.

"Oh…perhaps a piranha," I suggested off-handedly. "Or one of those American gila monsters. Something exotic and deadly."

"And this from the man who agreed to share a flat with me?" he returned with a smirk and one eyebrow arched over his twinkling eyes. "I am quite shocked that with those opinions you have not yet moved out."

"When you start asking me to stock my medical bag with several antivenins, then I might consider it."

"Never." His tone had somehow lost its barbed sharpness, and I could not tell if his answer referred to his never asking about the antivenins, or my never moving from our cozy home, which I missed sorely at that moment in time.

For a moment there was complete silence save the crackling of embers in the fireplace, and then my friend cleared his throat awkwardly and drew an intake of breath as if about to speak. I looked up to meet his eyes, but found he was merely patting the puppy's head with two thin fingers and studiously avoiding looking directly at me.

"What is the matter, Holmes?" I asked gently, for I was quite able by now to recognise and identify his moods and actions for what they were, not what they appeared to be.

"_You_ are," he snapped with more force than I believed I warranted under the circumstances. I opened my mouth in protest or defense but he continued with unusual heat. "Have you any idea how easily you could have been killed by that madwoman? I warned you against the methods of murder in the other three cases!"

I watched the ghostly pallour of his face turn to an ashy grey, a hue closely matching his eyes, as he spoke. By that alone I could see that it was not anger forcing its way through his cold voice but rather fear, and worry, and the fact that he was thoroughly unaccustomed to dealing with either.

I tempered my own voice with calm accordingly, my oil to his troubled waters as was my usual role when he would grow unstable. "And do you have any idea how singularly stupid a thing it was to attempt what you did to try to break my fall?" I posed the question directly, appealing to his intellect to regain control as I knew he desired it to.

He started, his hand jerking back from the puppy to land twitching on the blanket like an overturned beetle, and he glared venomously at me. I ignored him and continued, holding my throbbing side with one hand.

"I am no expert on self-defense or what your strength level is, but I _am_ a doctor, Holmes. And I _do_ know that even had you succeeded in keeping hold of me, you most assuredly would have pulled one or both your arms from their sockets or dislocated at least one shoulder."

I disregarded his continuous glare and softened my voice. "Or you could just as easily have been killed, Holmes. My accident was due to my stupidity and slowness, I freely admit the fact. Yours, however, was a conscious _choice_."

I saw his thin fingers tremble for a moment and then just as suddenly grip the blanket to hide the fact, and the fire smouldering in his eyes suddenly flickered and died in defeat. Without thinking of what an invasion of his precious self-defense against all outsiders it would be, I closed my hand over his fingers for a silent moment.

He did not pull away. The night had been full of surprises.

"And for that choice…I thank you," I said simply. "For a moment there I truly thought it was all over."

Holmes's fingers clenched momentarily under mine, and he lifted his eyes to meet my gaze at last; they shone soft, vulnerable, and for once did not give the appearance of tempered, forged steel…more like melting ice. "So did I, Watson," he whispered.

For a moment I thought he was about to say something additional to that softly-voiced sentiment; but even as I wondered what his thoughts might possibly be, I saw the impassive mask drop back down over his eyes and his features, and he withdrew both his hand and his company to begin stacking the teacups back on the tray.

I sighed, suddenly feeling inordinately weary, and struggled for a moment to remove the props from behind my head with my good hand. I gritted my teeth as a flash of pain shot through my ribcage, but even my muffled groan had been heard for an instant later Holmes was aiding me in lying back down, his brows knitted into a black knot.

Mr. Bubbles gave a low, cranky growl as he was deposited back into his box by my friend, and promptly crawled out again to huddle up on my foot – my un-sprained ankle, thank heaven. Holmes scowled at the little beast but let it be, merely pulling up the blankets around me and making sure they were secure but not tight.

"Doctor, are you quite certain you would not like to take something for the pain?" he asked once more, turning the lamp down beside the bed.

I nodded in drowsy affirmation, feeling much warmer now with the strong tea in my stomach and the fire blazing merrily across the room, together with the presence of the closest thing to a friend I had been privileged to enjoy in several long, weary years. "I am fine, Holmes," I murmured. "Thank you."

I heard a dreadful creaking and groaning of springs as my friend pushed and pulled and shoved and yanked a large wing-backed armchair over from the fire, placing it within reach of my bed.

"What the devil are you doing?" I asked sleepily.

He snorted, casting a derisive glance at the puppy sleeping on my foot. "Ensuring that dear Mr. Bubbles does not see fit to suffocate you during the night, since you seem to be so fixated on his presence."

"You're going to have an awful crick in the neck come morning if you sleep there," I murmured, shifting slightly under the covers to find a more comfortable position. The bulldog puppy rumbled sleepily in protest, nipping my toes.

"Oh, be quiet," Holmes growled in annoyance.

"I _beg_ your pardon?"

"Not you, that blasted animal. _Please_, Watson, do rest now?"

I felt a sense of peaceful calm wash over me as my friend grudgingly folded himself up into the armchair in the company of a goodly volume on obscure tropical diseases, obviously intending to keep a vigil over me while I slept. Perhaps I could indeed doze peacefully and without nightmares then…

I awoke a few hours later, when the strains of _Auld Lang Syne _floated up from downstairs, amid muffled cheering accompanied by twelve booming strikes of the ponderous old castle clocks.

Another, less invasive, sound drew my attention, and I felt a fond smile flit unbidden to my lips as I perceived that my poor friend had fallen asleep in his chair close beside my bed, his thin frame wrapped up like a mummy in the only remaining blanket in the room. Holmes was snoring silently with his mouth half-open, a sure sign that he was absolutely exhausted but had fought valiantly against the armies of Morpheus before being claimed a prisoner of war.

And evidently Mr. Bubbles had taken a greater liking to the detective than he had to my foot, for the little pup was curled up on Holmes's lap, also snoring, and with one paw twitching in his sleep.

This time when I dropped off at last into a most restful slumber, only soothing and comforting images appeared in my dreams.

And even now, some years later, I could ask for no happier New Year than to feel as I did that night.


	11. Happy Birthday

_Just a bit of silly randomness, in honor of my friend **Protector of the Gray Fortress**'s birthday tomorrow, Saturday. I'll be gone out of town taking an all-day class, so it's going up tonight. And due to a lack of time, any mistakes are unintentional and will be rectified once I return tomorrow night. This is not Canonical, btw; just a warning._

_Happy Birthday, chum, and many more of them!_

* * *

Holmes and I had only just gotten back from a hair-raising case in the outskirts of Hammersmith, the hour being rather past midnight. I was cranky, irritated with my companion, and very sore from the run through the streets (my still-healing leg was no match for a normal man's just yet); and Holmes was nursing a matched set of bruised knuckles, for which he could only blame himself and his ridiculous propensity for dramatics in the apprehension of a criminal.

Mrs. Hudson took one sleepy look at us and decided the best course of action would be to beat a hasty retreat, a decision which was quite vehemently reinforced when Holmes rudely growled like a cantankerous bull-dog, when the good lady merely asked if we would be wanting a late supper.

I was too irritated with my friend – if I could call him that at the moment – to apologise for his actions; I was thoroughly tired of cleaning up after his messes, the least of which had been to let the criminal lead us a merry chase through six blocks of dark, wet streets tonight.

I muttered the formality of a good-night and was favoured with an expressive snarl from round his blackest pipe as he curled up in _my_ armchair and began to belch out smoke like a railway engine that had caught fire.

Rain began to beat down upon the roof in a clattering downpour, just as I ascended the stairs to my bedroom, nicely completing the lovely mood and putting me into the absolute sweetest of tempers as I shrugged out of my damp clothes (I had taken a rough spill on wet cobblestones, and worse than not being helped up by my companion was the fact that he had jumped _over_ me to continue the chase).

I tossed the sodden pile of fabric into the corner but then thought that it was not fair to Mrs. Hudson to make her suffer for my irritation with Holmes. Instead, I grudgingly hung the clothes over the chair. Within ten minutes I was wishing both for sleep to come quickly and for a hot-water bottle, as the room was rapidly growing far colder than I should like.

Of course, if Holmes kept up that inferno in the room below me, I could very well be smoked like a Christmas goose in my bed before morning.

It was that rather disturbing image that prevented me from peaceful sleep that night, I believe. I tossed and turned well into the early morning, and finally dropped off into a restless slumber around half-past three, after ascertaining from the noise banging about downstairs that Holmes had at least not fallen asleep and set the house afire with his lit pipe.

It could not have been much later that I was being roughly shaken awake by a thin, cold hand on my shoulder. I blinked my eyes open into the wavering light of a candle being held far closer to my head than was safe.

"Go away…" I mumbled crankily, promptly turning over and ignoring Holmes's insistence that I awake myself 'this instant'. Even pulling the coverlet over my head did not seem to get the point through the detective's foot-thick skull.

Master of observation and deduction, my eye.

"Watson, come! We have a client, and the case appears to be most extraordinary! Your presence is both necessary and eagerly awaited!" cried he, turning up the gas and extracting a yelp of dismay from me when the room filled with a garish glow.

"Holmes…" I moaned, rubbing my eyes and cautiously pulling down the coverlet a few inches to snatch at my watch before he could take it from my grasp. "It's only…ten minutes past seven, for the love of heaven! We only just got in a few hours ago!"

"Clients unfortunately do not make their visits correspond with our ideal timetables," he replied cheerfully from somewhere to my left; I could see his shadow fall across the blanket over my head. "Up, Watson! It is a lovely morning, and I believe I can give you an intriguing case for your annals before it turns to afternoon!"

I considered telling him what he could do with his intriguing case but decided against it in view of the fact that he was hovering dangerously close to my ewer and water pitcher. Perhaps if I ignored the man, he would take the hint and go away…

Not so, for suddenly the shadow pounced at me and yanked the blanket fully off of not just my head but _my entire bed_, cheerfully tossing it to the floor despite my yowls and a few choice words I had learnt in my army days.

"Dear me, Doctor…such language from a gentleman?"

"Will you get out of my room!"

"Doctor, you might want to keep your shouts to a more controlled pitch, else you may frighten off our client," he returned with far too much energy, tossing a clean shirt at my head.

"I certainly hope so! Then perhaps the _normal_ people who inhabit this house can get a few hours' restful sleep!"

"Come, come, you know you wouldn't miss it for the world. Stir yourself, Doctor, this minute. Or would you like me to send Mrs. Hudson up to waken you, hm?"

I blanched and scrambled for my slippers, for the floor was freezing cold; judging from the greyness around my window curtains, the cloudbank still held the city firmly in its grip. Holmes merely chuckled and shut the door behind him when he left, leaving me scowling and muttering about clients with poor taste and even poorer manners calling at such ungodly hours of the day. If this case ever made it into any publication, I swore to give the client in question the most hideous alias I could think of.

I stumbled my way through a rapid change and toilette, the cold water doing a marvelous job of jolting me rather painfully into a less comatose state, and then I gave a rather disgruntled yank upon my bedroom door and nearly bowled over Sherlock Holmes, who was apparently waiting in the passage.

"What on earth are you doing?" I grumbled, glaring tetchily at the man.

"Just came back up to see that you hadn't dropped off again," he retorted with an entirely too large smile.

Chipper people rarely amuse me at any hour of the morning, and ones who hold other even more spastic characteristics as a principal component of their personalities even less so shortly after dawn. I said as much to him, though in an undertone so that our client would not hear, and the infernal fellow only threw back his head and laughed in a ridiculously jovial mood.

I glared crossly at him as we reached the landing. "Who exactly is this client, whose business cannot wait until a more decent and respectable hour?" I hissed as he put his hand upon the sitting room doorknob.

"You shall see," was his typically cryptic comment, to which I scowled and he grinned. Holmes threw the door open and then stepped back to allow me precedence into the room, and in consequence ran squarely into my back when I stopped short, staring at the scene, my brain rejecting the evidence of my sleep-dulled senses.

"What the devil –"

I heard a repressed snicker from behind me and found myself propelled into the room with enough force that I caught the sideboard to prevent staggering. Holmes shut the door and grinned smugly at me, rubbing his hands together in a most self-satisfied manner and fairly hopping about in his nervous energy.

"Good afternoon, Doctor," Mrs. Hudson said primly from the table, whence she was apparently putting the final touches to a very attractive luncheon, complete with a large cherry tart with a lit candle protruding enticingly from its centre. The good woman beamed at me and then sent the twitchy detective a stern glance when he got too close to knocking off a decanter from the sideboard.

"Afternoon?" I gasped, still attempting to make sense of what I was seeing.

"Indeed, Doctor," Holmes chortled in unmitigated glee, "due to the cloud cover it is impossible to tell what time it really is. Therefore I took the liberty of moving the hands on your watch back a good five hours, both to give you a chance for some well-deserved rest and our good landlady a bit of time to work her magic without fear of your stumbling in like a growling hyena as you normally do after a long night like the last."

"But –" It was really ten after one?

"Doctor, the candle is going to burn down to the cherries," Mrs. Hudson scolded, shooing us both over to the laden table.

I spluttered for a moment, causing Holmes's grin to widen into an all-out smirk, and the good woman merely laughed and with a nod left the room for what she said was the remainder of the meal…what on earth could be missing?

I stared after her, and Holmes gave a quiet noiseless chuckle and pointed to my chair, seating himself opposite. "I told you when we first moved last year, one of her goals was to put some weight on the both of us."

I blushed, for obviously it had succeeded much only in my case, and my friend's eyes twinkled. "Yes, but –"

"Doctor, blow out the candle before it gutters in the tart, there's a good chap? I do believe it is customary to make a wish in such circumstances, if I remember my traditions correctly."

"Yes, it is…but I've not done this since I was a lad," I squirmed in slight embarrassment.

"Pfft, just do it, Watson. I for one am ravenous after that chase last night." Holmes waved me off with one hand and began sawing eagerly at the tart with the other without waiting for me to blow the candle out.

I laughed, wished for another such exciting year as the past had been, and extinguished the candle, feeling ever-so-slightly foolish as I did so.

"You know," Holmes garbled around his mouthful of cherries and crumbs, "I never did unnershtand that tradition. Highly unshanitary, y'know."

"Yes, well, so is talking with one's mouth full," I replied pointedly, indicating the crumbs on the table dangerously near my plate.

"Mflghmp," was the expressive response I received before he gulped, grinning guiltily at me.

"You'd best put other food on your plate, or Mrs. Hudson will have a fit if she sees you eating dessert first," I pointed out, spearing a slice of cold beef for myself and putting one on his plate as well.

"That is another tradition I never quite understood the logic in," he said plaintively, beginning to eat the vegetables I shoveled onto his plate without his realising the fact. "I mean, truly – why save the best part of the meal until after one is already stuffed with the rest of the food?"

"Because nutrition is far more important than people like you believe," I retorted. "One is not supposed to consume more tobacco and sweets in a twenty-four-hour period than he is proteins and vegetables."

"Oh, can't you come off it for a day, Doctor?" Holmes grumbled into his water glass and eyed with distaste the melon sitting invitingly upon his plate.

I smiled and glanced up as Mrs. Hudson entered, bearing a tray containing a pitcher of what looked wonderfully like cold lemonade, a rare treat.

"Mrs. Hudson, you are a _marvellous_ woman," I told the lady, quite sincerely.

She blushed prettily and told me to 'go along there, young man,' to which Holmes rolled his eyes and immaturely stuffed his mouth full of bread and butter, earning himself a second stern look and an admonishment to 'stay out of the cherries until he ate everything on his plate.'

I could not help but burst into laughter as soon as the door had shut and he promptly dumped his remaining vegetables into the empty meat platter, shoveling a goodly piece of tart onto his plate in their place with an exclamation of satisfaction.

I finished my wonderful meal in a more placid manner and asked dryly if I might have a piece of the dessert, or was he going to eat the entire thing despite the fact that it was in honour of _my_ birthday.

"No, no, help yourself, Doctor," he said cheerfully, waving his knife at me. "I take it you are no longer quite so irritable about last night, then? You seem in rather a better temper than you were when you stormed up the stairs around the witching hour."

"Well, you are a fine one to talk of tempers," I retorted, spooning a bit of syrup from the platter onto my tart.

"Quite true," he agreed amicably. "Would you like some lemonade?"

"Yes, thank you. Did you really change my watch?"

"Oh, yes. It is going on two now. It took quite a while to get things prepared in here anyway, and you are _such_ a bear when you don't get enough sleep. I had to, for all our sakes."

I glared at the man over my fork, and he blinked placidly at me before shoving a glass of the drink teetering over my direction. I caught it before it overturned; out of pure reflex, for this happened on a fairly regular basis. Sherlock Holmes rarely ate with any real appetite – but when he did, mealtimes were an adventure, not a social event.

"Well, it was very kind of you both," I finally said seriously, smiling at my companion. "And a complete surprise – how did you even know today was my birthday? I'd completely forgotten, in the excitement of this case of yours."

"I went through your discharge papers," he informed me calmly, spearing an errant cherry that was rolling around on the platter. "You really should keep your personal records secured some place other than your desk; that lock is child's play to pick."

"Obviously," I agreed dryly, resolving to find myself a dispatch box or a lock-box before the month were out. I had already learnt that anything Holmes _could_ get into, he _did_, and meant no harm by it in the least. I did not make a fuss over it, for such things kept life from becoming stagnant and utterly boring when they so easily could have been for me, a still recovering war veteran with no steady occupation as of yet.

Besides, his curiousity was never meant in a malicious way, and it was a small price to pay to be able to associate with the wonderfully strange fellow that had become my closest friend despite both our efforts to the contrary this last year.

And as Holmes broke off in mid-sentence (by this time he was rambling onward about German music and its supposed ability to accelerate the deductive process) with a loud expletive, rushing over to his desk and beginning to fling a whirlwind of papers and memorabilia about from drawers and cupboards in search of what he said was my birthday present, I smiled and then laughed in perfect contentment.

For the first time since I had returned to England, I felt completely happy – and what's more, I felt at home.


	12. Valentine's Day

_Of course, this is non-slash, and I desperately hope it does not have that tone; I worked long and hard to make certain it would not be construed as such._

_And in case anyone was wondering, the holdup in PGF's and my new collab is due to a stint of writer's block; this is the first thing I've written of any substance in over two weeks. Hopefully we will have a new chapter up before the weekend is over._

_Happy Valentine's Day, everyone!_

* * *

Whether it was the dual fit of boredom, or the nearly-emptied bottle of after-dinner sherry, or the successful (if dangerous) conclusion of the dreadful affair of Lady Ambridge's multiple poisonings, neither knew; only that somehow the conversation had finally come round to _marriage_, of all things.

"Have you truly _never_ considered marrying, Holmes?" the Doctor wondered. "I could count at least a dozen of our female clients who made rather pointed attempts to accomplish that end with you in the last few years."

Holmes waved a languid hand (the one he had not taken a slice across the palm to in the scuffle for the murderess's dagger) haphazardly in a gesture of extreme boredom. "It is bad for business to marry one's client."

Watson raised a pointed eyebrow and glanced down at the wedding-ring adorning his right hand, though without any traces of bitterness, only that of sweet memory. The detective saw this and knew it was safe to grin good-naturedly. "Case in point, Watson."

"Touché. But seriously, Holmes," the Doctor pressed eagerly, taking advantage of a talkative mood (a rare occurrence, with this particular bored and self-destructive consulting detective).

Holmes pulled his legs up under him, steepling his fingers in deep concentration as he wrapped a bored mind around the new conundrum. "No, I don't believe I ever have seriously considered it," said he pensively.

"_Seriously_?" Watson pounced eagerly upon the word choice. "You have, then!"

Holmes rolled his eyes tolerantly. "Pray curb your romantic streak, Doctor. I shall never marry."

"Why?"

"For one thing, a wife would be a distraction."

"I believe that is the general idea, is it not?" the Doctor returned slyly.

Holmes snorted, not rising to the bait. "Not to mention that any woman would be horribly in the way of my work, would be far too much of a responsibility, would be a liability for criminals to exploit in pursuit of me, _and_ that I have yet to find one that would be anywhere close to my intellectual equal…that was not already married, that is," he added as an afterthought, idly inspecting the scratchy bandaging round his hand.

Watson shook his head sadly. "And, of course, the fact that you could not _love_ her has never entered your mind," he muttered.

"Mm…_could_ is a poor choice of wording," Holmes opined, tapping a unbandaged index finger thoughtfully against his lips. "The fact is that it has nothing to do with capability, Watson, but merely that it would be foolish for an orderly, controlled mind such as mine to venture into the realm of the unknown – especially such a volatile realm as that of love. It is merely a sensible matter of staying far from the precipice, rather than walking the edge and peering over it."

Watson sighed, looking at the entirely serious countenance of the detective, and shook his head once more. "Holmes, you make it sound as if it were an abyss filled with explosives, waiting to be touched off by a stray lit match!"

"Quite an apt description, my dear fellow – once the fuse is lit, the results are uncontrollable," Holmes replied simply, striding to the table to refill his glass. "It is stupidity rather than adventurousness to leap headlong into a situation one knows one cannot keep under control. It is a much stronger man than I that could prevent disaster in that case."

Watson stared after him in amazement, processing this and wondering if the man had intended that as a veiled compliment or merely cold, hard, logical fact.

"Besides, my dear Watson," the detective went on complacently, "_someone_ in this chaotic disorder of a society must remain flat-footed on the ground, you know – where would the world be otherwise?"

"Perhaps it would be a bit happier," the Doctor whispered, staring moodily down into his glass, the events of the evening and its sordid case conclusion finally drawing level with the euphoria of triumph and swamping him in their wake.

A small clink sounded as Holmes hastily set the decanter back upon the table, turning to look quizzically at his friend.

"Why the sudden interest in my happiness, Doctor?" he asked kindly. "Has my mood really been so dreadful of late?"

"No, not at all," Watson hastily answered reassuringly. "Just…would it really do so much harm to take the gamble of allowing yourself to feel some kind of love at least, once in a while, in the interests of your happiness? You do seem so…empty, sometimes."

Holmes perceived the deep worry hidden behind the placid expression, and smiled, planting himself back down in his chair and stretching comfortably toward the fire.

"You say _sometimes_, Doctor," he mused thoughtfully, watching the flames flicker and dance. "And perhaps there is an element of truth in what you say. Tell me, what exactly…" he trailed off, the first signs of uncertainty showing in his aquiline features, a faint twitching of the jaw, a slight sharpening of the eyes, a clenching of the bandaged hand on the armrest. "Tell me, how exactly would you describe the feeling?"

Watson blinked, hastily setting down his glass on the nearby table; if the conversation had gotten this far without a verbal explosion, then they had both had more than enough to drink for one night. "Love, you mean?" he queried uncertainly.

"Yes, quite. I am not certain I should know it if I felt it, you know," Holmes pondered candidly, eagerly wrapping his entire concentration around the new inscrutable mystery at hand in lieu of a night spent in depression and other, more harmful, vices.

"Well…it's…rather hard to explain as an actual feeling," the Doctor admitted somewhat sadly, fidgeting with a loose thread on the chair and looking into the fire, seeing ghosts of recent years dance kindly in the flames. "It's…a warmth that comes of mutual understanding and sympathy, for one thing…an enjoyment of companionship…but that's just a manifestation of it. You can't define it by some logical explanation, Holmes."

"No, I suppose not," the detective murmured.

"Because it isn't part of logic," Watson added, plucking absently on the loose string until it unraveled another inch or two in a reddish fuzz. "Things like love are not bound by rules of society or science or anything else – which is half their allure, in my opinion. Mankind is fascinated by that which we cannot fully explain or comprehend, and have been so for bygone ages."

Holmes glanced up, a smile lurking at the corners of his mouth, threatening to show despite his efforts to remain aloof and distant from this increasingly interesting discussion. "I believe you see the entire _world_ through rose-coloured glasses, Doctor," he teased gently.

Watson flicked a slightly melancholy, slightly embarrassed glance up at his friend and then just as quickly back down to the fire. "I try," he whispered sadly, "as a human being, not just as a healer. Love is what keeps us from being bitter even when we by all accounts have a right to be."

_And heaven knows if a man ever had a right to be so, you have, Doctor. _Holmes bit the statement back before it could leave his lips, skipping to the question in his mind instead. "Love does that, you say...the giving of it, or the receiving?"

The quiet question startled the Doctor from his half-painful, half sweet memory of a beautiful, gentle young woman with blonde hair and blue eyes and a heart large enough to share her husband with a dear friend and, by extension, the world.

Sherlock Holmes was standing now, chewing furiously upon his oldest, and unlit, pipe, and watching his friend's expressions in a legitimate and shockingly open expression of a desire to understand.

"The giving of it, of course," Watson replied instantly. "Real love, Holmes, does not require a reciprocation; if so, it would cease to be a selfless emotion and become selfish, crude, and desecrated from its true meaning."

"Its true meaning? Which is?" the detective inquired, his grey eyes serious and melancholic, the bantering tone gone from his voice now in a desperate attempt to wrap his mind around a problem that could not be explained away by facts and science.

"Well…" Watson stood stiffly to his feet, ambling absently around the room in thought and finally coming to the window, looking down upon the busy wintry street below. "The deepest and purest definition, I suppose, is a self-sacrificing regard for someone, a desire to see her...or him...happy above all other things in life including one's own happiness. I vaguely remember the Bible saying something about there being no greater love than to lay down one's life for a friend, and I've never heard a better definition in any other literature."

Behind him, unseen by the Doctor as he stared down at the couples walking past on the pavement below, Holmes suddenly fumbled to catch the unlit pipe as it accidentally fell from his clenched teeth. He shoved the item into his pocket and stared in some small confusion at his friend's back in the warmth of an abrupt realisation, a little-used portion of his well-ordered brain-attic suddenly being illuminated by the warm brilliance of a completely illogical, but highly effective all the same, flood-light.

"Watson, I…"

"Did I answer your question? Your original question?" his friend asked quietly without turning round from the glass, framed in the brilliant yellows and golds of a setting winter sun.

The original question. _"Why the sudden interest in my happiness, Doctor?"_

"Quite," Holmes whispered softly. "And I yours?"

The Doctor cast his mind back, fumbling for a moment to remember what had instigated the conversation. _"Would it really do so much harm to take the gamble of allowing yourself to feel some kind of love at least, once in a while, in the interests of your happiness?" _

Watson turned from the window to see the detective leaning with one elbow upon the mantel and his head tilted into the palm of his hand, staring moodily at the now-sheathed and cleaned dagger that they had taken from their murderess.

The one responsible for causing the deep, stitched wound along Holmes's left palm, when he had made a frantic grab tonight to prevent the knife from reaching his friend and chronicler's unprotected back.

"I am not quite certain now why I even asked," Watson replied softly, and despite the dim evening light Holmes could tell even his eyes were smiling.


End file.
